


Holmesian Sensibilities

by Mycroft_is_my_Holmesboy



Series: Sensibilities Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge, And kink, And other naughty behaviors, And other porn stuff, Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual character in a sexual relationship, Bisexual John Watson, But John Sorta likes it, Don't Judge Me, Gray-Asexual Mycroft, Incest, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of previous drug abuse, Multi, Mycroft and Sherlock are naughty boys, OT3, Occasional angst, Porn With Plot, So sue me, Threesome, Well some plot, holmescest, okay fine there is plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:06:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 30,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroft_is_my_Holmesboy/pseuds/Mycroft_is_my_Holmesboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock are in a long term, semi-stable relationship. But here comes John.</p><p>After getting caught in the living room with his secret lover for the better part of the past fifteen years, Sherlock has to find a way to make John understand, or risk losing his blogger. John has concerns, Mycroft has a suggestion, and, if all else fails, Sherlock has his cocaine. In the meantime, let the kink commence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caught in the Act, Part one (Entry 1 - Day "15")

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is the first of 31 entries for ChasingRiver's 30 day OTP (OT3) Porn Challenge. There will be 31 entries because the first entry turned into a two chapter affair. Please enjoy :)

Beta [ AngelicIntentions387 ](../users/AngelicIntentions387/pseuds/AngelicIntentions387)

Not Britpicked.

[ ChasingRiver’s 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/39525363882/30-day-otp-porn-challenge)

  


Day “15” : Getting Caught Having Sex  


OT3 : Sherlock/John/Mycroft with a heavy side of Holmescest

 

“It has been far too long, Mycroft,” Sherlock growled, kissing his older brother fiercely over the other Holmes’ smirking lips. It was as close to admitting that he had missed the elder man as Sherlock would ever get, and Mycroft clearly took pleasure in this lapse of Sherlock’s disdainful facade. Sherlock hardly cared what victory Mycroft thought he had gained, as long as they were both naked and semi-horizontal very, very soon.

  
“It is always pleasant to be missed, Sherlock, but do try to keep some semblance of self-control,” Mycroft’s hands undermined his teasing words as they slipped under his brother’s trousers to grip his arse in a firm grip. Sherlock thrust shamelessly against him, growling again and taking Mycroft’s mouth once more in a biting kiss. He wanted to see his collected brother as ruffled and desperate as he himself was feeling.

  
It had been five weeks since they had had any sort of quality time together, let alone time for sex. Sherlock liked to think of his body as transport, but even he occasionally had to bow to the needs of his flesh, and more than that, with Mycroft there was... sentiment. The week after their last clandestine meeting, Sherlock had been deeply absorbed in a tricky murder-suicide that had turned out to be a murder-murder-murder-suicide, and then for the week after that, he simply had not been able to escape John long enough to escape to Mycroft’s flat. And of course, with its usual impeccable timing, the elder Holmes’ job had interfered, taking him abroad (Bulgaria, obvious from the orange scuff on his left shoe), for three solid weeks, without any contact. Without a case for the last six days, and without Mycroft’s mind, or cock, to keep him entertained, Sherlock had resorted to particularly messy experiments involving the human spleen, angering John and leading to a bitter feud over who would clean the blood off of the kitchen ceiling. Neither had relented, thus far.

  
“And what of yours? Straight off of the plane and here you are. Careful, I might start to think you care,” Sherlock sneered, ignoring his brother’s amused eyebrow. Mycroft could read Sherlock’s frustration in the set of his shoulders as well as Sherlock could deduce his previous business from his shoes. No doubt between that and the blood, dried in vicious splatters in the kitchen, Mycroft had a very solid theory on the origins of Sherlock’s acute displeasure. He always knew, and he always helped to relieve the tensions. It had once been the basis of their arrangement.

  
“John is out for the night?” the government official prodded, ignoring Sherlock’s quip as if it were one of his more ridiculous outbursts. The younger brother growled the affirmative, pressing into Mycroft’s arousal with his own, teeth catching his lower lip. It was Wednesday, which meant John was out for a pint with Detective Inspector Lestrade, as had become their habit in recent months. They had roughly three hours before they needed to be concerned about anyone interrupting their reunion. Mycroft was more like to take his time and build up slowly to their sexual relations, but Sherlock had less patience than usual for such frivolities and was determined to do away with foreplay.

  
Mycroft was not so easily dissuaded, however, and a slick tongue over the roof of Sherlock’s mouth sent a shiver through the younger man’s thin form. Roughly fifteen years since their first night together and Sherlock’s body held few secrets from this man now. “Mycroft,” he growled again, but a firm hand on his arse had him pressing into his brother’s arousal once more.

  
“Trust me to know what you need, Brother Dear,” Mycroft nipped Sherlock’s smooth jaw,one hand moving around to the front of the other man’s trousers, cupping him through his pants and caressing him with long fingers. Sherlock wanted badly to argue and struggle, but Mycroft’s control over his body was as absolute now as it had been at nineteen. Sherlock ran his hands over Mycroft’s chest to the gentle swell of his middle, so well hidden with specially tailored suits.

  
“Let me,” he prompted, knowing his brother would know what he was wanting. Mycroft seemed to consider him, his nimble fingers never ceasing their delicious attentions on Sherlock’s erection. Finally he gave the brunette a smile, warmer, perhaps, than one would expect from a Holmes, and nodded. He gave Sherlock another tender kiss and allowed the younger to fall to his knees.

  
The scent of Mycroft’s sex was familiar and intoxicating, even through the layers of the man’s pants and suit trousers, and Sherlock mouthed it indulgently through the fabric, mouth watering shamelessly at the prospect of tasting him again. He felt Mycroft shudder slightly and reveled in the control he had over the man in this moment. It would not last, and he only rarely wanted it to, but now and again, it was nice to have the control he so willingly handed to his older sibling. Unfastening the buttons of the trousers and pulling them and Mycroft’s pants aside, Sherlock laved at the engorged head of his brother’s penis. He heard a sharp intake of breath above him and savoured it as he did the salty drop of precum leaking from the slit, and the heavy feel of him over his tongue.

  
“Sherlock.” His name, gasped softly in that breathless, fathomless voice. Ah, the point where Mycroft’s carefully constructed behaviours fell and Sherlock could hear in that those two, nearly silent syllables every word the elder had never said to him, due to their indoctrination against sentiment. Sherlock tried to answer in kind with his body, his mouth worshiping and his hands roaming in uncharacteristically gentle caresses. It was never just sex, not when Mycroft let himself sound like that.

  
A hand entangled itself in his curls and Sherlock hummed his approval, drawing another breathy moan from Mycroft. Sherlock looked up at him to see his brother’s eyes closed and his head tilted back, the long column of his neck begging for forbidden bites and marks. Another day, Sherlock might have attempted such an assault, but he did not have the will to fight with Mycroft, not after so long without him.

  
“Sherlock...” A warning this time, and the consulting detective smiled around his brother’s girth, touching himself through his trousers as he prepared to receive the auburn haired man’s load. It would be enough, just tasting it, for Sherlock to--

  
“Sherlock?”

  
Not Mycroft. John. Blast, blast, John. Sherlock’s eyes settled on his very surprised looking flatmate at the door just as Mycroft shuddered and released into his mouth. The tenderness was gone from Mycroft now and he was silent, but with his eyes still on John, Sherlock felt his own ejaculate fill his pants, even as surprise turned to horror and all of Sherlock’s own hidden fears became reality.

  
“Hello, John.” Mycroft was steady, as if he were not standing there with his cock in his own brother’s mouth, and calm as no man had the right to be so soon after orgasm. Hidden within Sherlock’s curls, Mycroft’s index finger drew a small heart and tapped twice. Sherlock pulled away from him, understanding the unspoken message. Mycroft would take care of things, no matter what happened.

  
“Christ, Sherlock,” John said, looking as lost as the younger man had ever seen him, and the beginnings of anger could be seen in the corners of his eyes.

  
“I don’t think you should stroke his ego by calling him the son of God, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft’s joke was ill timed and delivered as flatly as was possible. John’s eyes whirled onto Mycroft, the anger clear now, his teeth were clenched behind firm lips.

  
“I think perhaps you should go.” It was nearly a snarl.

  
Mycroft was silent for a moment. Sherlock chose then to stand, using Mycroft’s thigh as a support, with a nigh imperceptible squeeze, communicating ‘it’s alright. I’ll be fine’. He felt anything but fine, but he could handle this moment. “Yes,” he heard Mycroft answer at last, “Perhaps I should. For now.”

  
He dipped his head slightly. “Sherlock.” Meaning for him to be careful, and to call him later. Sherlock dipped his head in return. Then Mycroft was righting his clothing, gathering his coat, and he was out of the flat.

  
“Sherlock... What... the fuck? No, sorry.” Ah, an unfortunate choice of words. John seemed to take a moment to collect himself, one hand over his eyes in his ‘if I don’t actually look at him, Sherlock won’t have just done that’ pose. The consulting detective was familiar with it. “Did he force you? It IS Mycroft after all, maybe--”

  
“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “I was perfectly willing. To be blunt, John, Mycroft and I have been in a relationship for the better part of the past fifteen years. I instigated it, he has never forced me to have sex, and, quite honestly, I spent several years trying to convince him to ignore the useless and archaic notion that our having sex is somehow morally wrong, despite the fact that we are both consenting adults and are at no risk of siring inbred offspring.”

  
John was silent for a moment and Sherlock couldn’t read his expression. He could tell from the wrinkle of his sleeve that he had only had one drink this evening, from his shoes, that had walked back from the bar,a healthy twenty-six blocks, and from the light bruising on the knuckles of his right hand that it had been a brawl that had cut his night short. What he was feeling, however, Sherlock could not deduce to save their friendship, though he certainly tried.

  
“I need... I need to process this, Sherlock. God, why would you think you can just...? Why would you want to?” John asked, looking for all the world like he truly thought Sherlock had gone mad.

  
“He understands, John. He knows what it is like in my head and he knows how to make it... stop.”

  
“He’s your new cocaine.”

  
“He’s what I started using cocaine to replace.”

  
They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.

  
“... I need to think about this, Sherlock.” A sigh of resignation.

  
 _‘But he has not yet walked out...’_

  
“Of course. All the time you need.”

  
John nodded and shuffled up the stairs to his room, the door closing like the final note in a symphony he had never wanted to end.

  
Sherlock cleaned the kitchen ceiling.


	2. Caught in the act, Part two (Entry 1.5 - Day "15")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering just putting all of the entries as one fic, as I would like for all of them to be chronologically related, if possible. I'm deciding "days" from here on out by drawing the prompts from a hat, however, so we shall see how well that works out. Thanks for the kudos, Ya'll. Pretty sweet sauce, that.  
> Chapter beta'ed by Pheonixkoneko (who does not have an Ao3 account to link to)

They hadn’t spoken in three days. John had said that he needed time, and Sherlock had respected that, but it was difficult, and he had been on edge the entire time. John had not acknowledged the clean kitchen ceiling, nor the fact that Sherlock had actually cleaned the rest of the kitchen in a fit of manic energy. He had even removed the decomposing tongues from the crisper drawer, which John had complained about earlier in the week. (‘Next to the bread, Sherlock, really? At least put them in something!’ Not that John cared that a container would disrupt the results of his experiment.)

He just wanted John to yell. Or punch him. Anything, so long as he would stop this damnable silence. Anything but leave.

His next choice would be to escape to Mycroft’s townhouse and pretend none of this ever happened. It was a weakness, a gut response, some part of his childhood psych wanting to run back to the only caregiver he had ever known. Thinking of Mycroft that way for the first time in two decades made him smile wryly as he reflected on why, perhaps, people would find their relationship so unpalatable. He didn’t expect to be understood, not by the idiot masses who could not tell a triathlon runner from his shaving cream or a cheating spouse from his choice of tie. How could he expect them to understand his need for someone that could read him as easily as he read the rest of the world? Someone who knew how his brain functioned. People thought he could just turn it off, but the facts came to him in a constant stream, maddening and intoxicating in a busy city like London. Alone, the noise was even worse. Mycroft understood. He knew how to stimulate his thoughts, and he knew how to focus Sherlock’s brain on his more base nature, when the noise was too much. More effective than the cocaine had ever been.

So, while he would never expect the world at large to understand _that_ , he had secretly hoped that John would. John understood his brain, his hard drive and Mind Palace, better than most, one of only a scarce handful over his life that truly seemed to grasp the extent of Sherlock’s brilliance and sought to further understand his emotional failings. From John, he had hoped for acceptance. Lacking that, a grudging tolerance would be appreciated. Anything was better than being left alone again.

His phone buzzed.

_Any new developments? MH_

‘Are you alright?’ he was asking. ‘Has John left you?’

Sherlock looked at the text for several minutes, then replied ‘No’.

Mycroft would read it as a danger sign. He wouldn’t be wrong. Left with only his own thoughts and the skull, without even being able to go to Mycroft, worried over John’s reaction, his fingers twitched for the needle hidden so carefully under the floorboards of John’s room. He considered slipping out to Mycroft’s office while John was at the surgery tomorrow, and his pride rebelled that he would consider giving in to his weakness. But giving in to a long conquered addiction to illegal stimulants was hardly the right decision either.

He wasn’t certain how long he sat there, idly itching the crook of his left arm, but it could not have been more than thirty minutes when the door opened and John came in with milk in hand and headed for the kitchen. Sherlock ceased his scratching with no small amount of effort, knowing that even Anderson would be able to deduce Sherlock’s current thoughts, if he acted like that. There was some banging around in the kitchen, then John came out and sat in his chair. Sherlock sat up in his own.

“Do you have any?” John asked, his eyes tired, but hard.

“What?” They both knew what John was talking about.

“I got a text from your... From Mycroft. He said it’s a danger night, so tell me, do you have any?”

They sat in silence for a moment, Sherlock debating on whether or not to reveal his stash and let John rid him of the temptation. He settled for changing the subject until he had decided. “Are you moving out?”

“Did you want me to?” John never missed a beat.

“I... No.” Sentiment, but true. Desperately true.

“I’m not planning on moving out. Your... relationship with Mycroft isn’t the most morally compromising part of living with you, Sherlock.” A tired grin, not forced, at least. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back, a bit.

“You’ve become accustomed to heads in your refrigerator then?”

“Nauseatingly so.”

They giggled like they had at that crime scene, the very first night. This was familiar, this was that well favored JohnandSherlock hybrid that their lives had become since coming together. And now John knew one of Sherlock’s few remaining secrets.

“Listen, Sherlock, I told you a long time ago that it was all fine. I had never expected this, but well... This, this is fine too.” John’s voice was soft and warm. Not for the first time, Sherlock considered kissing him. But it seemed better to take thing one secret at a time. Instead, the consulting detective rose and wrapped his arms awkwardly around the still sitting man. Uncomfortable as the position was, the action itself was not entirely foreign to them. The adrenaline of a case had been known to affect them both in interesting ways. John patted his back, smiling more widely than before, and Sherlock pulled away.

“Thank you.” Slightly tense, as any Holmes, saying those unfamiliar words, but Sherlock returned John’s smile, relieved that things were going to be alright after all. Later after John had disposed of his emergency cocaine, and he was in the privacy of his room, Sherlock would text Mycroft again.

_The case is solved, everything is fine. SH_

‘John accepts us, or at least me. I am fine. I’ll see you soon.’

Placing the phone by his side, Sherlock sat back against the headboard with a slight smile on his face. He might even get a bit of sleep tonight.

***

The following weeks went better than Sherlock might have theorized. John did seem increasingly comfortable with Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship. To the point, at least, that they could sit together on the couch, Mycroft's leg gently pressing into the side of Sherlock's, and John told them not to 'keep from snuggling' on his account. Both brothers had laughed.

"For Mycroft, this is 'snuggling', as you put it, John," Sherlock drawled, shooting the government official a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Mycoft merely raised one in return.

"Sherlock was always so clingy growing up, I felt it was reasonable to place restraints on our physical contact when we might be... interrupted." He was referring of course, to the opportunity of Mrs. Hudson arriving in her usual whirlwind of activity.

John grinned, "Bloody good job you've done of that, considering I ended up seeing..." The mirth vanished from his eyes and a pink tinge covered his whole face, all the way to his ears. Sherlock shifted in his chair. Mycroft looked at John, then shared a look with his younger brother. Sherlock gave a firm shake of his head. It wouldn't do for Mycroft to be reading into things that were not there.

"Hey, you two, Holmes-mind-speak," John said, trying to revive the joking atmosphere from before. Mycroft gave him one of his most calculated smiles.

"Mycroft," Sherlock warned testily, but really, even his own stubbornness was no match for that of the British Government.

"Dr. Watson, have you ever had sexual relations with men?"

John was doing an admirable impersonation of a fish.

"Mycroft!"

"Ah, I do apologize for my bluntness. What I mean to say, of course, is that I have known for some time of your interest in my brother. Given the circumstance, that you are living and working together, it seemed a fair question," Mycroft smiled, but there was ice at the edges and Sherlock knew that he was toying with his flatmate.

"Mycroft... Look, I would never..."

“Oh, I have no doubt of that, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said levelly, not seeming to take note of Sherlock’s tense posture at his side. “If you had seemed the type, you would have found yourself in new accommodations within the week. My brother’s heart is a more fragile thing than he perhaps cares to admit, and I will protect it with my last breath.”

Sherlock wasn’t breathing, and he didn’t think John was either. It was a rare thing, to hear Mycroft acknowledge sentiment, and he hadn’t known it was coming. Mycroft ran a finger up the seam of Sherlock’s trousers to bring him out of it. John, he noticed, couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away. Mycroft was smirking slightly now and watching John with a bit of amusement behind his eyes.

“It is Sherlock I am concerned about,” Mycroft continued, “He’s never been any good at... denying himself pleasure, and it has never been part of our arrangement that he do so.” John’s eyes shoot up from where they had fixed on Mycroft’s finger and he looked quickly between the two brothers’ faces.

“A-are you saying...?” John stammered, and Sherlock could see even across the sitting room the way his pupils dilated and his pulse thundered in his neck.

“I am _suggesting_ that you join us. The extent to which we integrate you into our relationship, of course depends on you. And on Sherlock.” That finger was moving on the seam of his trousers again. He had not, it seemed, been able to hide his feeling for John from Mycroft at all. It had been foolish, perhaps, to try, but there had always been the chance of jealousy leading to Mycroft sending the former army doctor away. It would hardly be the first time one of them had run off a potential lover for the other.

John was back to impersonating a fish. He really should take this show abroad.

“Sh-Sherlock?” Hesitation, not certain that Mycroft was really offering this without strings attached, or that Sherlock was really willing.

“Yes, John.” _'Yes_ _, John, God yes, John.’_

“Er, yes then. Erm, cheers.”

Mycroft chuckled and Sherlock couldn’t stop his grin.

“Cheers, indeed.”


	3. Rules for Intercourse (Entry 2, Day “23”)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets a surprise 'patient' at the surgery, Mycroft gets to simultaneously torture and treat his brother, and Sherlock gets to use the word anilingus is casual conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rules for Intercourse (Entry 2, Day “23”)
> 
> Prompt drawn from the hat: Rimming
> 
> It should be said that the prompts will not always be the main focus of the chapter (though they will always be fit in). Somehow, this idea of connected short stories is turning into one story with lots of little sexy scenes. >3> *not sorry*  
> Thank you for all of the support so far. The Kudos I see when I wake up make me smile. Though a couple of comments wouldn't be remiss... :)

 

John was surprised at how, well, normal things seemed, despite his agreement to start seeing the Holmes brothers the week before. Well, he said ‘seeing’, but John wasn’t certain you could call what they were doing ‘dating’. He sighed, thinking back to that night, when Mycroft had lain down the rules. If John intended to commence a romantic relationship with Sherlock, his dates with women would cease. If he merely wanted to join them for sex, it would only be while Mycroft was present. He had also forbade them, until further discussions could be had, to enact any sexual kinks that may cause physical harm without  him being there to at least oversee things, if not participate. John was not allowed to let Sherlock talk him into breath play at any point. Dates were acceptable at their discretion. The list went on.

****

John had never intended on causing Sherlock harm, in any sense, but Mycroft’s thoroughly considered rules made him nervous that he would slip up. And in addition, John had created his own rules, unto himself. Primarily that he let Sherlock make the first move, and tried to ensure that they talked things out on a regular basis. Throughout the conversation one week prior, Sherlock had been uncharacteristically silent, watching John converse with Mycroft, leaned back with his hands steepled. The whole experience had been surreal.

****

And Sherlock had not approached him on the subject since.

****

In fact, their actions with each other were almost unchanged. They had taken and solved two cases and Sherlock had run him around London and done his experiments and pickpocketed Lestrade. He had talked to John whether he was around or not, and complained about being bored until John had offhandedly suggested he be the one to get the shopping that week. Sherlock’s look of horror was thus far unrivaled.

****

John had almost had himself convinced that it had all been Mycroft’s idea afterall, when he would see, just from the corner of his eye, Sherlock’s gaze on him in an admittedly non-platonic fashion. John wondered how long Sherlock had been watching him that way with him unawares. It really was no wonder everyone thought they were a couple. But Sherlock clearly wasn’t going to make a move, so maybe John should follow the second of his personal rules and make sure the two of them had a talk. Sans Mycroft.

****

“Dr. Watson? Your next patient is here.”

****

“Hmm? Oh, ta, Angela,” John said, giving the young nurse a smile. The younger woman blushed a bit and hurried out. John hoped she’d get over that soon. It had been flattering at first, but now... Well, perhaps he was counting his Sherlocks before they... attached? That joke was shaky at best, really...

****

“Good afternoon, Doctor Watson.”

****

“Mycroft?”

****

The government official was dressed as impeccably as always, leaning ever so slightly on his umbrella and smiling at John with that cold edge. “Hello, John. Pleasant day, I hope?”

****

“Mycroft, I have an appointment to see to right now.”

****

“Yes, of course, that would be me.”

****

John raised an eyebrow, “You’re John Smith? Like Doctor Who, do you?”

****

“I am familiar, of course, with existence the show, but I’m afraid I have never had much time to waste on television programming. Why would you assume I was fond of it?”

****

“Er, just, he always says he’s... Nevermind. I’m sorry, why are you here?” Something to do with Sherlock, no doubt, and John frowned at the thought. “Is Sherlock alright?”

****

“Not quite so,” Mycroft said, arching an eyebrow at John in that slightly infuriating way both Holmes brothers were prone to do. “It has come to my attention that the two of you have yet to have intercourse.”

****

John spluttered, still not sure what to do with Mycroft’s surprising bluntness towards sex. “I’m sorry, how do you know that?”

****

“Besides the obviously physical indicators? I’m sure you can guess.”

****

John scowled, “Does Sherlock know you’ve bugged the flat?”

****

“I am certain that if he cared to find out, he would,” Mycroft deflected easily.

****

John sighed.

****

“I know that you want him, Doctor Watson, and I know that he wants you. He has been ignoring the signs. My pointing it out was supposed to stop this ridiculous dance of yours,” Mycroft intoned with obvious contempt for the situation.

****

“Forgive me for being cautious when Sherlock hasn’t said a bloody word about it. The only one who says he wants me at all is you,” John growled back, not approving of the elder Holmes’ condescending demeanor.

****

There was a moment of silence as the two of them simply looked at each other. Feeling his annoyance ebb somewhat, John thought about the glances he had seen from Sherlock, when the consulting detective thought he wasn’t looking.

****

“You’ve seen it,” Mycroft read his mind as he always seemed to, “He has been... Hurt before, John. Both by others, and by me. He will not take the first step. You will have to do it yourself.”

****

John soaked this in for a moment. “... I think I know Sherlock pretty well by now. So, I’ll thank you for your advice, but I’m going to do this my way. He’s stronger than you give him credit for.”

****

“And, at times, weaker than the pedestal you hold him upon. Have a good afternoon, Doctor.” Mycroft dipped his head and turned to go. John just let him, his lips pursed as he considered what he needed to do, if he wanted any sort of romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes.

****

***

****

“You’re meddling,” Sherlock accused, fisting the sheets of Mycroft’s king sized, four poster bed, his knees sinking into the plush surface.

****

“Hmm,” Mycroft responded, the vibration of his hum sending a shiver up Sherlock’s spine.

****

“Leave John alone,” Sherlock ordered, but he was pressing back into that delicious mouth, feeling Mycroft’s tongue spear into him again, and found it hard to sound commanding. Mycroft apparently thought so as well, for he chuckled softly against his hole and continued to tease the rosette with his clever tongue.

****

A lubed finger entered him as that tongue moved down his perineum, then bit his left arse cheek gently. “I have only your best interests in mind. John has been waiting on you, you know.”

****

Sherlock scowled, even as his body responded eagerly to his lover’s touch. “Or he does not want me after all. Mycroft, there is no evidence-- oh...”

****

That tongue was running along the length of his cock now, then back over his balls to his now slightly loosened hole, his left hand coming up to stroke Sherlock slowly as the elder buried his face between his brother’s cheeks.

****

“-- That he has ever had experience with a man, let alone two. And I assume you will want to join us eventually,” Sherlock continued, with effort.

****

Another nip, this time to the right cheek. “You continue to refuse to acknowledge his reactions to you. But even without that, Brother Dear, I have found all sorts of evidence, with just a little digging into our honorable doctor’s past. A long term relationship in college, two flings while in the military. John may not be gay, but it would be difficult for him to claim to be entirely straight.”

****

“And yet he does,” Sherlock countered with a glare. Mycroft merely smiled and got up, crossing the room and grabbing a plain manilla folder from his briefcase, bringing it back to present it to Sherlock. Sherlock turned onto his back, then scooted up against the headboard to look through it. He moaned.

****

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mycroft resume his place between Sherlock’s legs on the bed, and he felt the warmth of the other man’s mouth around his cock, but couldn’t look away from the folder in his hands. Mycroft had gotten _photographs_.

****

Resting a hand in his brother’s hair, Sherlock moaned again, this time in appreciation. “Then the glances _were_  from sexual interest.”

****

Mycroft smiled slightly around him and Sherlock took the movement to mean ‘of course’. Grinning to himself, Sherlock continued to look at the photograph as Mycroft’s mouth and tongue continued to work his erection.

****

“I’ll begin courting him tomorrow. Be ready to join us by next Sunday.”

****

The only answer he received was in the form of two fingers, stretching him open.

****

***

“How was Mycroft’s?” John asked, his voice seeming forcibly casual.

****

“Pleasurable,” Sherlock answered, enjoying the blush that dusted itself lightly over John’s cheeks. Seeing how favourably Mycroft’s bluntness had served them the week before, he added, “Mycroft is quite talented at anilingus, though it is rare I can stay still long enough to enjoy it. Without being tied down, of course.”

****

“Of course,” John squeaked softly. Sherlock smiled.

****

“I would let you tie me down, John, but I believe Mycroft would be quite disappointed if we broke one of his rules so very early.” He practically purred the words. “Though it is always entertaining to do so.”

****

John seemed to find his voice again. “Maybe not for the first time, yeah?”

****

Sherlock’s smile widened, “The second, then.”

****

John laughed, still slightly awkward, then ventured, “Sherlock?”

****

A raised brow.

****

“Are we... Is this just sex?”

****

Sherlock studied his friend and colleague for a long moment, considering this. “No. I doubt it could ever be just sex with someone like you, John.”

****

John smiled warmly at him and then said, “You do realize this means Anderson will owe Lestrade thirty quid. They’ve had that bloody bet about us going for ages.”

****

Sherlock’s smile turned to a dark grin. “Brilliant, John, simply brilliant.”


	4. Doctor, Doctor! (Entry 3, Day "18")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A John Doe is brought to Sherlock's attention and Mycroft wants him off of the case. John, on the other hand, gets to play "Doctor".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor, Doctor! (Entry 3, Day "18")
> 
> Day 18: Medical play (This is a sorry excuse for a porn fill.)
> 
> Hey, so posting might get a bit erratic sometimes. I'm an art student and I just had two critiques this week to prepare for. This happens every couple of weeks and soaks up all of my free time. Still, hope you all stick around and enjoy. Comments and kudos are love :)

Sherlock didn't try to hide the fact, anymore, that he was admiring John's arse as the doctor leaned over the semi-fresh corpse in the middle of a condemned parking structure. Lestrade was watching him with a raised eyebrow, but the man's wallet was thirty pounds heavier, and complaining about Sherlock's newest level of unprofessionalism didn't seem to be very high on his agenda. The same could not be said for Anderson.

"For God's sake, this is a crime scene, not some seedy hotel room," he snapped.

"Oh, do you have intimate knowledge of such places? No wonder Sergeant Donovan has left you for Detective Inspector Dimmock. And your wife is also having an affair. Such rotten luck," Sherlock fired off with the falsest of sincerity, never taking his eyes from his flatmate's rear. Anderson glared from his relegated corner.

John stood, brushing off his knees, "Well, like you thought, he hasn't been here long. Less than two hours. Cause of death, asphyxiation, with bruising on his wrists from being tightly restrained and post-mortem scraping along his legs. Probably dragged here, rather than killed here?"

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed, looking over the body for himself. Occupational markers, tan line from where a wedding band had been until recently... nothing that stuck out as particularly useful. Sherlock scowled. " Aged thirty to thirty-five, office worker, three... no, four cats at home, recently quit smoking, divorced, the suit is from... oh. Oh."

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, but Sherlock was turned away from him, texting on his phone.

_Found one of yours. SH_

"A government employee, the kind that deals in sensitive information."

"Oh," said John, catching on. Sherlock's phone buzzed.

_Leave. Do not get involved. MH_

Sherlock scowled at his mobile. Mycroft could not have seriously expected him to simply leave an interesting case like this one. Dead less than two hours, then relocated and called in? A government worker with no identification, murdered and left somewhere meant to be demolished. Idiot obviously didn't account for the likelihood of teenagers with skateboards taking advantage of the empty pavement.

"Sherlock?" John asked, close behind him now. Sherlock showed him the phone and the sandy-haired man pursed his lips. The detective turned back to the waiting Lestrade.

“He must have been killed within five miles of here," he deduced, mind already racing with possibilities. "We need to find our motive. Come along, John."

"That's it then?" Anderson sneered, "Fat lot of help you were."

"Don't talk, Anderson, continued exposure to your voice is lowering Lestrade's IQ by the hour," Sherlock snapped. "Detective Inspector, we'll text."

***

"How are we going to find out the motive when we don't know who he is and can't go to Mycroft to ask questions?" John asked, paying the cab driver as they exited to 221b Baker Street. Sherlock was surveying the street around them with calculating eyes.

"We are not," he answered, "I'll be back soon, John." Then he was off, leaving his flatmate slackjawed behind him. John considered following after Sherlock, but the taller man was setting a brisk pace and John knew well enough how well the detective could lose him in the streets of London that he knew so much more intimately than John himself.  
  
With a sigh, John headed inside and up to their flat, putting the kettle on for tea. The familiar, ritualistic motions of the short process soothed his mind to a pleasant calm. He hated to be left behind, when Sherlock ran off into danger, especially without explaining himself. Sitting down with his tea, the doctor went through the options resolutely.

Sherlock knew more than he was letting on, that much was clear. So, either he was... investigating the area around where the body was found (why come home first?), he was interviewing possible acquaintances of the victim (why not take John?), or... well, what else did that leave? Chasing down criminals already? Consulting the homeless network? Confronting Mycroft?

Each theory seemed about as likely as the next. It was hardly the first time Sherlock had run off without him, but it was the first time since they had admitted... Something to each other.

_'I doubt it could ever be just sex with someone like you, John.'_

That implied some sort of feelings, right? Or maybe just the opportunity for feelings to develop... Having not thought of Sherlock as a sexual creature until just recently, John didn't know how to interpret these types of sentiment from him. He had never really thought it was a possibility, that he could have a real relationship with Sherlock. It had been easier to deny to anyone that they were a couple, saying that he was straight, rather than allow even the smallest seed of hope to grow. He had been terrified, downright terrified, to fall in love with Sherlock Holmes. Then Mycroft came along, and now things were all the more complicated. What new layer might sex add to the equation?

John’s tea went cold where it rested on his knee before he had noticed it, lost in his thoughts. He gulped it down anyway with a grimace and sat the cup aside, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes tiredly. Maybe he needed to just get away for a bit. As with all things pertaining to emotion, Sherlock was processing their maybe-maybe-not relationship at a sloth’s pace, moving at a steady six feet a minute towards whatever eventual conclusion he would land at.

John heard the door open downstairs and then footsteps sounded up the stairs to their rooms. Sherlock came in, hair wild and scarf askew. He also had a rather impressive cut on his cheek, and another on his forehead, both of which were still bleeding. John was on his feet immediately.

“Sherlock? Christ, sit down.” He made the detective sit and looked over his injuries. “What the hell were you doing?”

“Homeless network, John, trying to figure out who this man was,” Sherlock said, not protesting as John left to get the antiseptic. “Unfortunately a man running a prostitution ring thought I was trying to steal his... bottom bitch?”

John snorted. “You got decked by a pimp?”

“Such things happen sometimes, in my line of work,” Sherlock said defensively.

“Hmm,” John acknowledged softly, “And then you hit your hit? Passing out? Dizziness?”

“No, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock drawled.

“Hey now, you’re lucky you don’t need stitches. Let me know if you feel odd at any point, alright?”

Sherlock smiled slightly at him and raised an eyebrow, then winced as the action stretched his cut. “There is one thing on which I could use your... medical advice, Doctor.”

“What is that?” John frowned, not recognizing his tone.

“I’ve recently found myself terribly swollen around my roommate. I thought perhaps you would be willing to assist me,” Sherlock’s grin was cheeky and sexual and John finally caught on, blushing and coughing slightly. He chanced a glance at Sherlock’s crotch and was amazed to see that his flatmate was a bit aroused already beneath his slacks.

“That’s rather... Bold of you, Mr. Holmes,” He replied, “But, er... as a doctor, it is my duty to help.”

“Perfect,” Sherlock answered, then leaned forward and sealed his lips over John’s.

John moaned slightly and kisses him back, tongue sliding over pliant lips for the first time and marvelling in how real this felt. Surely it was a dream, after all. He must have fallen asleep in his chair and--- oh.

Sherlock’s hand was over John’s half hard cock now, bringing him to his full length with long, clever fingers, slipped under the fabric of his trousers and pants. John’s own hand scrambled to undo Sherlock’s trousers and touch him in return. The taller man groaned softly into his mouth, pulling John down onto his lap and fisting his cock enthusiastically.

“John,” He moaned softly, pulling back from their kiss to press his lips to John’s neck, kissing and sucking a dark bruise there.

“That’s, ahh, D-Doctor to you,” John managed to tease gently, even as pleasure assaulted him from every contact of their bodies.

“Mmm, you’re terribly sexy when you talk like that,” Sherlock purred, then grazed his teeth again over the fresh mark he had made. John’s response was a quick intake of air. “nd such a good doctor... I feel better already.”

“God, Sherlock,” John panted, stroking his flatmate even more quickly than before, feeling his balls draw tight. “Sh-Sherlock, gonna...”

“Yes, yesss, John, let me see,” Sherlock hissed, his eyes clouded with his own arousal, but still sharp enough to send a shiver down John’s spine and right around to his cock. Feeling Sherlock’s thumb circle the head of his penis press into the slit, he gave a shuddering moan and came, his hand tightening unconsciously around the member in his hand, spurring Sherlock to his own, soundless orgasm.

They sat there silently, panting, and breathing each other back in as they recovered. John felt limbless in a way he couldn’t remember having ever felt from a simple handjob. It was comforting to see Sherlock similarly affected.

“Well...” The detective said at last, leaning back to give John a cheeky grin, “Thank you, Doctor, I feel much better for your... skillful attentions.

John laughed and grinned right back at him, “You are most welcome, Mr. Holmes.

***

Mycroft had forgotten how frankly beautiful his dear brother could be with another man, within the throes of passion while Mycroft could use all of his considerable observational powers to... observe. Running his fingers over the erection trapped in his suit trousers, Mycroft restarted the footage from the beginning, watching Sherlock’s face as all of those familiar expressions and emotions flitted across his features in quick succession.

He was a bit surprised, however, to find himself admiring John’s form in a way he had not before. He had offhandedly noticed the good doctor’s attractiveness, of course, if only to see what his lover found so appealing about the man (it wasn’t hard to figure out, really) but he had never really thought about sex with John Watson as anything more than an abstract concept before. Now he imagined thrusting into that round arse, perhaps while Sherlock used the man’s mouth. The image was too delicious to put from his mind.

Yes, sex with Doctor Watson was going to require further consideration. In the meantime, he wanted to see about upgrading the quality of the cameras hidden in his brother’s flat.


	5. A Little Goes A Long Way (Entry 4, Day "28")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock needs to be disciplined. Luckily, a little discipline goes a long way.
> 
> This is just Holmcest smut, basically. There was going to be plot... There's a tiny nod to plot..... But this is Smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day "28" - Spanking
> 
> As always, thanks to everyone for reading and commenting, kudos-ing and subscribing. It's always lovely to feel appreciated.

"You got involved."

****

Sherlock growled insolently, "You knew that I would."

****

Mycroft's hand came down again over Sherlock's arse, the pain blossoming sweetly over his backside, making the younger Holmes grit his teeth.

****

"If I had not hoped you would listen to me, I would not have wasted the time asking you to leave," the government official returned, his voice level, but without the coldness that usually accompanied Mycroft's anger. He was displeased then, but Sherlock had not crossed the line into the unredeemable.

****

"It is an interesting case." He sounded like a petulant child. Really, it was no wonder Mycroft had put him over his knee. The hand came down on the other cheek.

****

"And I would have you on it, but for me. Now the Yard will be expecting you to help them."

****

Sherlock grunted, "Should have said..."

****

"You and I specialize in the things unsaid, brother dear."

****

The hand paddled his backside again and Sherlock felt it with a fresh wave of humiliation and sharp pain. If he were not so very hard, he might have been able to protest and make Mycroft stop. As it was, his erection was digging into the other man's thigh. Nimble fingers rubbed gently over the pink, tender flesh of Sherlock’s arse before coming down on him again. Sherlock had always found the pain deliciously distracting, and though Mycroft’s hand lacked the sharp sting of the riding crop, it provided an intimacy he would never admit he craved.

****

“Who... was he?” Sherlock gritted out, trying to focus his mind through the pain on this one inquiry. Mycroft ran a finger between his arse cheeks and teased at his clenching whole.

****

“I try not to mix business and pleasure more than is necessary, Sherlock, you know that,” He said calmly. Sherlock heard the undercurrent of arousal in his voice, however, recognizable to one who had spent so many years with the same lover. Mycroft’s need was mounting, and with very little effort, Sherlock would be able to push him over the edge. Sometimes, he suspected that Mycroft enjoyed these ‘punishments’ more than he did.

****

“Then give yourself the pleasure, Mycroft,” Sherlock purred, pressing his arse back into the older man’s next hard slap, then bringing his hips back down to ghost over Mycroft’s own crotch. The thick material of his suit trousers was not enough to hide the growing erection trapped there. Mycroft’s breath hitched in a satisfying way and Sherlock ground against him again.

****

“Sherlock...”

****

“Mycroft,” Sherlock purred again, moving in his brother’s lap until he was straddling his legs. A hand wrapped around him with practiced, unconscious ease and he reveled in its support. Mycroft’s eyes were slightly glazed, his tremendous wit battling against itself and against his need to take and own and pleasure. Sherlock kissed him with all of the tenderness he could muster, though the heat of his own arousal slipped in perhaps more than intended. Mycroft’s lips reciprocated over his, his tongue teasing and caressing. “Too much clothing...”

****

Sherlock began to remove Mycroft’s clothing, working at the buttons to his expensive suit jacket even as Mycroft worked away at his trousers and pants, having Sherlock lift off of him in order to remove them. Both naked at last, Sherlock pressed their arousals together without separation, both Holmes brothers moaned softly into the other’s mouth. Sherlock smirked and Mycroft growled.

****

“You were being punished, little brother. Do not think I will allow you control.” It was an empty statement and they both knew it. Even if Mycroft topped now, Sherlock was clearly the one orchestrating their coupling. Neither of them cared.

****

Flipping them both over, Mycroft wasted no time in spreading Sherlock and inserting a lubed finger into his hole. Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly as he groaned, pleasure intensifying from the surprise of Mycroft managing to coat his fingers unnoticed. He loved to be caught off guard like this, to lose this tiny round in their endless game of wit and barbs was meaningless when compared to the intense pleasure of being with an equal.

****

“So needy,” Mycroft growled softly, his voice at once sweet honey and rough tree bark. He was closer, Sherlock realized, to coming undone than the consulting detective had known him to be before. His prick hardened at the thought of the rough sex that was certain to follow Mycroft’s uncharacteristic dirty talk. The elder Holmes was already continuing, “Your dirty hole, pulling my finger in. Positively shameless, brother dear. I wonder how eager it will be for my cock?”

****

Sherlock moaned and moved his hips back into Mycroft’s probing finger. It earned him a hard smack on his arse.

****

“No, Sherlock, I will be setting our pace. You are simply going to be still and take it.”

****

Sherlock groaned again.

****

“You said we would have John by now,” Mycroft reminded, slipping another finger into Sherlock’s twitching hole and stretching him. “But our good doctor hasn’t even had you like this yet. I was ready, when Sunday came.”

****

Remembering his foolish declaration that he would have had John properly courted and prepared for Mycroft to join them, Sherlock fought back a slight blush. “It is not... that simple.”

****

“I had never thought it would be. Matters of the heart rarely are. It took you three years to seduce me.” Sherlock caught Mycroft’s smirk and raised eyebrow over his shoulder.

****

“You were battling with archaic morality standards and the fact that I was underage,” Sherlock snapped defensively, only to have the rest of his diatribe cut off as Mycroft thrust a third finger into him and brushed lightly over his prostate. “God.”

****

“Just Mycroft will do, but thank you.”

****

Sherlock snarled at him.

****

“Careful, Brother, I might decide you don’t care much for my presence and leave you alone.” Sherlock’s hard member ached in protest. Mycroft soothed it with a few, light strokes. “Neither of us want that.”

****

“... Please.”

****

“Hmm?”

****

“Please,” Sherlock enunciated, shame and lust battling within him at handing the power back over to his older brother. Mycroft pressed a tender kiss to the back of his neck.

****

“And people think you never learned manners.” The fingers were removed from his arse and Sherlock felt their loss for a too-long twenty second interval as Mycroft lined up his erection and thrust slowly inside. Sherlock moaned his pleasure softly as Mycroft began thrusting into him in earnest, his hips slapping against the heated flesh of Sherlock’s abused buttocks as he set up a punishing rhythm.

****

“My,” Sherlock panted, doing his best to remain still and not shove back into those exquisite thrusts, letting Mycroft control their pace in its entirety.

****

“You can move, little slut,” Mycroft growled, and Sherlock shuddered, trying to remember the last time Mycroft had lost himself so entirely to pleasure. Slamming his arse back onto Mycroft’s thick cock,  Sherlock was unsure just how long he could last like this, his mind was wonderously blank of anything but this, of them, and his pleasure was intensified by that.

****

“Next time,” Mycroft told him, his hips never slowing, “I will have Doctor Watson take that pretty mouth of yours. Can you imagine being so full, Sherlock? It’s been so very long...”

****

Sherlock whimpered, the images of John assaulting him, and of those long lost days with Victor making him open his mouth wantingly as Mycroft continued his assault. “My... God, My, want...”

****

“I know what you want,” Mycroft said, his voice low and strangely soothing, despite the lust running through the both of them. “Soon,” he promised, resting a hand on Sherlock’s back tenderly even as the fingers of the other gripped his left hip with a bruising ferocity. “For now, I want to see you cum. Release for me, little brother. Let me watch you come undone.”

****

It was too much, between his imagination, the hard fucking he was receiving and Mycroft’s words. Without a touch to his cock, Sherlock orgasmed, covering the sheets below him and a bit of his own body with his hot streams of his release. Mycroft was not four thrusts behind him, bending over to take him tightly in his arms, a bite finding its way on the nape of Sherlock’s neck as Mycroft spent himself deep inside of his arse.

 **  
**The two collapsed into the mess of Sherlock’s ejaculate, panting harshly into each other’s mouths as their lips met in a series of fiery kisses. Both found their minds blessedly blank, though in the very back of Sherlock’s mind palace, he knew that eventually he was going to need to have a talk with John. About what it really meant, that he was with Mycroft. And about Victor Trevor.


	6. In Which Things Go Horrifically Wrong and Mycroft Does His Own Dirty Work (Entry 5, Part 1, Day "25")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day '25' - Sensory Deprivation
> 
> So, this is another of those two-part-ers. There is no sex in this chapter. What? Yeah, I know. Sorry, chaps. You'll get it next time. Should be worth the wait though.
> 
> About that wait you just had: I am also sorry that it took so long to write and post this chapter. And it's a bit short. I was in the middle of finals, and since then I've been working these crazy 40+ hour weeks at work. And my cat slipped a disk in his back (he's fine). And I've been preparing for a much-needed vacation to NYC. So, hopefully it won't take this long again. But I really can't make promises, except that I will do my best. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, subscribing, kudos and comments. Comments, especially, are love.

 

 

John hated to be left waiting, and it seemed to be happening a lot lately. Sherlock had disappeared to Mycroft’s the night before, claiming to have been in pursuit of information for their case, but the look on his face suggested that a row might be due as well. John grimaced at the thought of the two brothers fighting over a dead man and how to handle the investigation into his untimely demise. Dinner at the Holmes Estate must be an awkward affair. Did they kiss and make up for it afterwards?

 

‘Best not to go there, John,’ He reminded himself, a light blush running its course over his features. To keep his mind from arousing, confusing and yet tantalizing, imagery, John tried to focus on his annoyance at having been left alone. Again.

 

But, er, not for the Mycroft bit. Of course. No, what frustrated him, really, was that sometime after two AM, he was awoken from his place on the sofa (where he had NOT fallen asleep waiting for Sherlock to come home, thank you very much) by the sound of his flatmate crashing about 221b, crying ‘his shoes, John, his shoes!’

 

As John had sat up, tired mind still trying to focus, Sherlock had said, “Don’t bother getting up, you’re too sluggish to be of use to me right now.”

 

Naturally having been insulted, and having been a soldier, and a doctor, and thus used to waking up quickly in times of need, John had managed a bit of sputtered indignation just in time to watch Sherlock take off down the stairs and out the door.

And so now John was left on his own to wait for Sherlock to deem him worthy of an update. It had already been three hours and without even being scheduled at the clinic, John was low on distractions. He texted Sherlock, his fingers so much less nimble over the keys than the consulting detective’s. He was not really surprised when he didn’t receive an answer.

 

The four hour mark passed, then five... At six, he began to worry. By seven, he was running out of solutions as to why Sherlock wouldn’t be back by now, or at the very least, bothering to answer John’s increasingly anxious messages. At eight hours, John finally called Mycroft, hoping the other man might have some clue as to where Sherlock might be.

 

“My people lost sight of him six hours ago,” Mycroft answered, his voice more peeved than John was used to hearing from the usually so collected man. It was clear that someone was going to be fired over this.

 

John swallowed, “You don’t know where he is either?”

 

“Looking. I’ll send a car.”

 

“Thank--”

 

Mycroft had already hung up the phone.

 

***

 

It was a strange experience, seeing Mycroft bark orders at men and women in dark clothing, looking over large maps of London and generally being... Not a minor government employee. Knowing that the eldest Holmes held more power than perhaps even the Prime Minister, and seeing it for one’s self did not, it turned out, carry the same weight in one’s mind. Looking at him now, John had no doubt that Mycroft had the power at his disposal to tear the world apart, if he deemed it necessary, and would in fact do so, if it were for Sherlock’s benefit, sentiment-be-damned.

 

Mycroft was at this point looking over what information they had about the case, no doubt following similar lines of deduction as Sherlock himself had. John stood quietly by, his back straight, standing at attention in this military atmosphere without giving it too much thought. Mycroft’s eyes devoured the images before him and he muttered under his breath, not a hint of the lazy genius about him at this time.

 

“Sherlock said something about his shoes when he ran out,” John supplied helpfully, and Mycroft made a small noise of acknowledgment.

 

“Yes, powdered substance in the treads.”

 

“... So, Sherlock must have identified something from the samples he took on scene.”

 

“Please don’t be obvious, Doctor Watson.”

 

Testy. John was a bit surprised to hear the official speak like that, not used to seeing Mycroft lose his cool with anyone other than Sherlock. A sure sign that he was getting more and more concerned.

 

“Right. Sorry.”

 

The two of them lapsed back into silence after that, the air seeming thick with it until an opening door and a familiar voice interrupted their tense vigil.

 

“What is this all about?” Detective Inspector Lestrade protested as he was lead in by two men in black suits and sunglasses-- _Really, Mycroft, Men In Black?_ \-- though he brought himself to a halt when he saw Mycroft and John. “Right, should have known it was you. What has Sherlock done now?”

 

“Run off alone,” John supplied, a bit flustered by the sympathetic glance Lestrade gave him, as if Sherlock had left him in the romantic sense. Didn’t he know what Sherlock was like?

 

 _‘But he’s not usually like that with you,’_ A traitorous part of his mind hissed, _‘Not before just recently. It used to be that he would run off with **you.** ’_

 

“We will need you to be in charge of the force that collects him, Detective Inspector. I’m afraid it would be reckless to use anymore of our... special resources to collect one man,” Mycroft supplied tactfully. As if he was not out of his mind with worry, as John knew he must be. It really made it easy to believe they hated each other, when one could show such disregard for his own brother’s safety without a twitch.

 

“Right,” Lestrade answered, sending John another look. John raised his brows appropriately in response, carrying on with the charade.

 

“And I thought it best to inform you that I am about to access your case files.”

 

As if on cue, ‘Anthea’ entered with a small metal box, which she promptly handed over to Mycroft before a slack-jawed Lestrade.

 

“Though I may not be the chemist that Sherlock is, my knowledge of the sciences is adequate enough for this. Clarice, if you brought the microscope?” Mycroft prompted, with a raised brow. ‘Clarice’ pulled another carefully wrapped item from the bag at her side and placed it on the table in front of them. Carefully removing his suit jacket, Mycroft sat down before it and began to ready a slide.

  
“Let’s see what my dear brother managed to find.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone else love the idea of Mycroft getting shit done? Hot Damn. Leave a comment if you agree ;)


	7. I Just "Something" Him, Okay? (Entry 5.5, Day "25")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everybody. So, it didn't take AS long this time.... But I'm still sorry. I went on vacation. Then I came back and it turns out that my cat had cancer and had at least three tumors (that are what put things out of whack and caused him to slip a disk). So, I had to put my baby down. So I was in mourning for a bit, and the feline society that I volunteer at sent me home with a gorgeous little girl kitty to distract me. So, I'm back on track again. Still working like a dog, but hopeful to get more writing in.
> 
> This is part two of day "25", which was sensory deprivation. It's got the porn half in it. It's not as graphic as originally intended, but it is porny. Enjoy.

“Get out of the way!” John thundered, rushing past the armed force that had just declared the threats in the building ‘neutralized’. It had been eighteen hours since Sherlock had left the flat, and sixteen since even Mycroft had lost sight of him; John wasn’t going to wait any longer before running in to find the man he ‘something’ed.

 

‘Love, you idiot, just admit that you love him,’ John’s mind prompted, but the soldier in him rejected the thought as too time consuming to ponder at the current moment.

 

“Sherlock?” He called out, running from room to room, opening and slamming doors. Several officers had already entered the building to deal with the gang of murderers inside, but thus far, Sherlock had not been found. John climbed to the higher floors, hoping to have luck where the police had not yet thoroughly checked, his gun drawn in case of stragglers. “Sherlock!”

 

After what felt like a century, John heard a grunt and the sound of a bare foot slamming into a closed door. A closet, at the far end of the room. John approached and willed his hand not to tremble as he opened it. Funny, that. With his own life in danger he was steady as a boulder; When it came to Sherlock, however, he was more like a ship at sea, rocking tumultuously.

 

“Sherlock?” He breathed, looking down at his flatmate before hitting his knees in front of him. “Jesus, Sherlock.” He was bound, gagged and blindfolded, so John began to undo the gag, doctor’s eyes already surveying his form for injuries. They’d taken his shoes, trousers and jacket, leaving Sherlock a curly-headed mess in just his pants, socks and wrinkled collared shirt.

 

“John,” Sherlock gasped as his mouth was freed, throat sounding dry and lips chapping. He wet them several times.

 

“Are you hurt?” John croaked sympathetically, hands moving to untie Sherlock’s blindfold, only to have Sherlock stop him with his bound hands knocking his away.

 

“My wrists first please, John,” he requested, sounding a bit better collected now. John complied, though he didn’t understand why Sherlock, clever, observant Sherlock wouldn’t want to be able to see what John was doing, or the closet around him. He carefully untied the tight knots around his wrists, rubbing the reddened skin soothingly to ensure the circulation to Sherlock’s fingers continued unabated.

 

“You didn’t answer me,” John pointed out and Sherlock’s lips tightened a bit.

 

“Bruised ribs, almost certainly. No other internal damage.”

 

“Well, I’m the doctor, so I’ll be the judge of that, alright? Come on, let me take this blindfold off and--”

 

Sherlock cut him off by kissing him fiercely, hands holding John’s own down away from the blindfold and then gripping his sides. John mumbled Sherlock’s name into his mouth, trying to bring him back to reason, but the consulting detective persisted, hands travelling over John’s body.

 

Finally managing to take his lips from the other man’s, breathing heavily and admittedly flushed, John asked, “Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock responded with a hand pressing lightly over John’s growing erection, and a soft, “Please.”

 

John was shaken. Here was his strong, beautiful Sherlock, found bound and gagged, with his vision blocked and begging for... John. Perfect, independent Sherlock.

 

“This is what you want?” John asked, voice turning gentle, understanding. He didn’t need an answer and just kissed him again, cradling his lover close. Sherlock responded in kind and John gave himself over to the feelings assaulting him from wherever their clothed bodies came in contact with one another.

 

Reaching down, he cupped Sherlock’s cock through his pants and lovingly brought him to hardness, whispering words of adoration to his needy love. Sherlock mewled softly in a way John would not have previously thought he was capable of. The older man kissed his jaw, tenderly peeling the light purple pants aside to get a better grip on his wanton lover. 

 

He needed this too, John realized, after having been so frightened he would never see his pulchritudinous flatmate again. The hours of worry and the weight of his and Mycroft’s vigil melted from him as he embraced Sherlock and gently rubbed him to completion. John focused on the stimulation of Sherlock’s acute senses, with his vision still impeded. It wouldn’t do to leave the bravest man he’d ever known, suddenly afraid of the dark. Maybe that was why Sherlock had not wanted the blindfold removed in the first place. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t wanted to see John, seeing him in his current state. The logic either option was so Sherlock, that John wasn’t certain he’d ever puzzle it out. Either way, he wanted to give the man he ‘something’ed a better memory of this day, of having his senses limited, and a better idea of how very, very much John adored him.

 

After Sherlock found his release, he reached for John, but the doctor stopped him with patient hands. “Wait, Sherlock. I’ll be fine until we’re home.” He kissed him again and untied the blindfold with steady hands. This time, Sherlock made no move to stop him and simply stared into his eyes with those fathomless blue-green orbs, blown wide. John’s brain nearly shuddered to a halt and ‘I love you’ very nearly tumbled unawares from his lips. He caught himself just in time to avoid making a fool of himself and instead concentrated on cleaning and straightening up his shaken love.

 

“Do you know where your trousers are?” John asked, only to get a very Sherlock-like scoff in return. “Alright, so it wasn’t high on your priorities list. And I suppose you’re fine with walking bare-arsed through a bunch of cops and Mycroft’s men?”

 

“Body-shame is so victorian, John. Positively archaic,” Sherlock retorted. John smiled to see the light coming back into his eyes, and even if he sounded a bit more forced than his usual scathing wit, John wouldn’t mention it.

 

“Maybe I just don’t want them ogling you,” John admitted instead, mostly because of the secretly-pleased smile he knew remarks like that always dew from Sherlock. John grinned and kissed his cheek, looking Sherlock over again for any serious injuries before carefully helping him up and leading him from the building where he had been held captive.

 

***

 

Mycroft kept his face perfectly collected as Sherlock exited the building, John’s arm gently around him. As they neared him, he could see the way his brother was trying to avoid jarring his ribs. Despite Mycroft’s concern, however, he would never go to him. Theirs was a complicated dance, and even more so when there were witnesses all around them. It didn’t much matter now, though, because John was marching Sherlock right to him, considerate fellow that he was.

 

“Mycroft, not abusing the queen’s money out of sentiment, I hope?” Sherlock sneered at him. Mycroft saw the way Sherlock’s hand tightened ever so slightly on John’s, where it was wrapped around his hip, and the tightness of his eyes, and knew everything Sherlock wanted to say to him, but couldn’t. He tapped his finger against his cane as he answered.

 

One. Four. Three.* “Hardly. This is a terrorist cell that killed one of our own for information. naturally, the government would have taken over the investigation. Whether you were here or not, we would have gone in,” He said, glad to see that Sherlock had not missed his subtle message by the flickering of his irises. “But perhaps you should go home. You’ll only be in the way here. I would suggest the hospital for those ribs of yours, but I doubt even John could convince you to see sense.”

 

“John can take care of me as well as the bumbling idiots you’ve undoubtedly lined up,” Sherlock sniped.

 

“As well as the ‘bumbling idiots’?” John protested, but Sherlock was not about to apologize here. Mycroft smiled, keeping his mouth tight, but perhaps allowing a bit of warmth into his eyes. No one else was close enough to see that much anyhow.

 

“Go home then, Brother Dearest, and try not to... exhaust our poor doctor.” He gave their rumpled appearance, (Sherlock’s who one could blame on his capture, but John’s who was much more telling) a pointed look, mostly just to enjoy the blush that quickly rose on John’s cheeks. Sherlock snorted again, and lowered his voice when he replied.

 

“Interesting advice from someone who’s just upgraded the cameras in our flat.”

 

“Oh God,” squeaked John.

  
Mycroft just continued to smile enigmatically, glad his brother was going to be just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * One. Four. Three. : I love you. This was a code used on pagers to communicate the phrase 'I love you'. Fred Rogers claimed to have kept his weight at 143 his entire adult life, and so every morning when he stepped on the scale, he claimed it was like being told 'I love you'.
> 
> Please, please leave a comment. I need love too. I'm not ashamed to beg a little.  
> As always, thank you to everyone that has kudos'ed and subscribed. Sorry to make you wait.


	8. Let's Have Dinner (Entry 6, Day "1")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day '1' - Anal Sex
> 
> For being exceptionally well-spoken individuals, the Holmes brothers often fail to communicate with each other. John, on the other hand, is pretty top notch with interpersonal relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. It took me eight chapters to get to this. And still no threesome. And this chapter is sorta angsty. And plot-y. Basically everything but porn-y...
> 
> That said, I wanted to thank EVERYONE for the kudos and reviews. You guys are excellent.

“Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

 

“Trousers are boring.”

 

Standing in the doorway, Mycroft arched on elegant brow in surprise at the scene he seemed to have intruded upon. Sherlock, naked as the day of his birth, was playing his violin in the middle of the sitting room. John was in his chair, on his laptop, and was rather resolutely not looking at his lover. Mycroft’s eyes travelled over that pale skin, having been away for nearly five weeks now, and winced a bit, internally, to see the dark purple bruises that still covered his brother's midsection.

 

“Brother Mine, I have said it many times before, but don’t you think sulking about is a bit petulant in a man your age?” Mycroft asked, drawing Sherlock’s gaze for a quick moment before the younger Holmes huffed and looked resolutely at the skull on the mantle.

 

“John is being intentionally absurd.”

 

“Is he now?”

 

“Sherlock, wanting to wait until your ribs are healed to do... that, is hardly ‘absurd’,” John retorted with the heavy sigh of a man who had been forced to repeat himself too many times.

 

“I have explained that if we use--”

 

“Sherlock!” John had turned scarlet once more, a glance darting at Mycroft.

 

“Mycroft!” Sherlock thundered, turning to his brother with a glare that screamed at him to make John ‘be reasonable’.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft replied smoothly, his eyes calm, and the corner of his lip twitching into a smile, “If John, your medical expert, your doctor, thinks you should wait to have intercourse until your ribs are better healed, then I think it would be more illogical to argue with him in his own area of expertise.”

 

Sherlock growled at him, taking Mycroft’s common sense approach as the challenge they both knew it was in their little game. John covered his eyes, clearly having caught on that things were about to get worse, not better. Sherlock marched up to his brother and pressed their bodies together, masking well the pain of his jarred ribs, his eyes alight with fury. Mycroft, however, was not new to this particular game, and found it easier than most would not to react to Sherlock Holmes, naked and straddling their thigh.

 

“I don’t need you for sex, Mycroft, I think we both know I can get it if I please.”

 

Mycroft wished he wouldn’t do this in front of John, who looked a little stunned at the idea that he was so easily replaceable. Surely he knew how rash Sherlock could be when angry? Surely he knew, that despite the threats, Sherlock would not leave him just for sex? By the look on his face, he didn’t, and was still too insecure in their new romantic relationship for this. Mycroft decided to shift the game.

 

“Yes, and if it were just me, I know you would undoubtedly do so. Anything to make me jealous, when I admitted long ago to myself that I would never get to keep you. My impromptu love. My outrageous, wonderful and improper brother,” He touched Sherlock’s cheek, seeing the surprise come over him that Mycroft could speak so candidly, and in front of another, no less. “But Doctor Watson... You will never cheat on him. You value him too much. So do not throw around idle threats that will hurt him.”

 

Mycroft removed his hand from Sherlock’s face and went for the door. Donning his coat against the English rain, Mycroft tapped his umbrella twice, as was his habit, and left 221b Baker street. He knew he had made a victory in there, had finally rendered Sherlock, his mouthy brother, speechless, but he found little pleasure in it now. Not that it mattered much; When you were the British government, you learned to harden your heart and your features, and continue on your forward path.

 

**

 

Sherlock hadn’t spoken since Mycroft left. No, he had merely sat down in his chair and steepled his hands, like he had been given an interesting puzzle, and nothing John said or did seemed to bring him out of his focused state of mind. Finally giving in and crawling onto Sherlock’s lap, John gave him a kiss, carefully avoiding his ribs and taking Sherlock’s hands into his own. Persisting until Sherlock gasped softly into his mouth and kissed back, John rested his forehead against his lover’s.

 

“Hey there. Back now?” John smiled.

 

“Back?”

 

“Mind Palace, I figured,” John shrugged. He wondered how much of Sherlock’s Mind was dedicated to Mycroft. He wondered how much of it was dedicated to John himself. Sherlock said nothing in return, so John kissed his forehead. “Go to Angelo’s with me?”

 

“Why?” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes at last.

 

“I’m hungry, you should eat, and we haven’t had a proper date,” John supplied, watching an odd expression cross Sherlock’s face.

 

“A date?”

 

“Sherlock, you’re echoing. Are you alright?” No fever, pupils properly dilated and focused, but his lanky flatmate didn’t seem to be thinking clearly. Had Mycroft really shaken him up that badly? John’s eyes softened, “Sherlock... Are you worried about Mycroft? Look, I don’t believe what he said for a minute. You’re so loyal, when you actually care about someone. We both know how much you care about Mycroft. He knows it too, he just wanted to win this little game you’re always playing.”

 

“John,” Sherlock spoke up, and John felt his fingers slip through his own, “He was right. Mycroft said that because he knew it was true. He believes I would cheat on him to get the better of him, and I would. I have.”

 

“When? When you were  high all the time, Sherlock?” He knew he had hit the nail on the head when Sherlock averted his eyes and his hand clenched subconsciously. John sighed. “You were sick. And from what little I know of that time, Mycroft had hurt you. You can’t hate yourself for that anymore. It’s done and nothing can change it. What you can do is share it with someone who loves you, who can help you work through the memories.”

 

“Are you implying that you love me, John?”

 

“I don’t have to imply it, Sherlock. We both know that I do.”

 

“Say it.”

 

“I love you,” John acquiesced.

 

Sherlock was silent.

 

“I do, Sherlock. Did you not actually think I’d say it?” John didn’t mention that he hadn’t even really admitted it to himself until just before saying it out loud. The look on Sherlock’s face was guarded enough for John to know Sherlock hadn’t expected him to say it at all. He kissed his lover again. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sherlock shifted up to initiate another kiss and John let him have his way, thumb caressing the back of Sherlock’s hand patiently. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock whispered John’s name breathlessly against his cheek. John’s heart ached for him.

 

“I love you. Mycroft loves you. We both know that you love us. Everything is going to be alright. Okay?” John Murmured, the hand not holding Sherlock’s moving through the other man’s curls. “Come to dinner with me. Then if you want, we can come home and… Well, I may not be a proper genius like you, but I’m sure we can figure out how not to hurt your ribs while we… Er…”

 

Sherlock finally cracked a little smile.

 

“You know what I mean, Sherlock. Don’t look at me like that.”

 

“Three continents and still prude.” The sneer was teasing and it warmed John’s heart to see that normalcy back in his eyes.

 

“Not prude. But one of us has to have some semblance of decency.”

 

“I hate decency. Being decent is boring.”

 

John laughed, knowing that if he were honest, he’d have to agree.

 

***

 

“Mm, try not to move too much, Sherlock,” John chastised, settling where he perched over the detective’s thin hips. He was flushed from arousal and his own erection bobbed between them. Sherlock, ever the difficult one, thrusted up his hips the tiniest bit, making John moan and curse in the same breath. Sherlock laughed breathlessly up at him.

 

“God, John.”

 

John shook his head and kissed him indulgently, then sat back up and slowly began to rock his hips in tiny motions, lifting up and sinking back down steadily. Soon the two of them found their rhythm, and chuckles and teasing words devolved into gasps and moans. The look in their eyes remained loving, and even as ecstasy overtook them, the smiles never really left their faces.

  
For the first time, Mycroft had to turn off the video feed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have a complaint that this wasn't much of a porn-fill. Let me tell you, it was difficult to write even that much. I don't know... It just felt too personal. I felt like a voyeur in my own story. So you go Mycroft's point of view instead. I think it's better this way.  
> And yes, they did go out to Angelo's. No, I never intended to write it.


	9. The Only Solution (Entry 7, Day "3")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is this the end of us then, Brother Dear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Day 3 is supposed to be body fluids. I didn't want to write it. Mostly, it didn't fit with the plot at this point (that damn plot).  
> So, there is no sex fill. Nope. Not even sorry. (Okay, a bit. Is any one even reading this just for the sex bits?)  
> However, the prompt is sorta filled in a non-sexy way, given a couple of refferences to Mycroft-fluids. Just not sexy or dirty kinds.
> 
> I'm sorry it's short. I'm moving, and back in school. And training two new people at my job at the same time. g_g  
> I'll try to do better next time, I promise.

“You hurt him.”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself. “He was hurting you.”

 

“My feelings are not yours to protect, Mycroft. I’m a big boy, and I can handle myself.”

 

“Of course, Doctor Watson. What would you have me do?”

 

John shifted on his feet. Clearly, he had not imagined things would progress this easily. “Just... Make it right, won’t you? Sherlock... Look, if nothing else, you’ve got him back to smoking. He was doing so well.”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips, not about to mention to John that he had had a similar lapse in control since his most recent spat with his brother. “No signs of a relapse?”

 

“... No. Not that.”

 

Mycroft smiled slightly, looking over Doctor John Watson again with an obvious air of approval. “I suppose I have you to thank for that.”

 

John blushed guiltily, then straightened his posture and hardened his features. “I guess you do, yeah.”

 

“Thank you, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft said sincerely. “For what it is worth, I am glad I did not have you removed from Sherlock’s life.”

 

This startled a laugh from the army doctor across the desk, “Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

 

Mycroft smiled without having to force it quite as much as usual. “I’ll take care of things with Sherlock, Doctor. You don’t need to worry about that.”

 

**

 

There is a memory of Mycroft that Sherlock has never been able to delete. Mycroft at seventeen, sitting on the floor of the bathroom attached to his suite of rooms, holding their father’s ring between bloody fingers. Sherlock is ten and he has never seen his brother so... unkempt. He is stripped down to his pants and it is the first and only time Sherlock will see what life in the Holmes household had done to Mycroft and his body.

 

He was thin. Thin in a way that Sherlock had never been familiar with before, and in a way Sherlock never would have known from the careful way Mycroft always dressed himself. Always, Sherlock was hearing their mother tell him that perhaps he should skip the cake after dinner, or something similar. Sherlock, who found he didn’t care much for the time it took to eat, had even taken to mimicking this treatment. Looking at his brother now, he had to wondered how he had missed... This. He turns his eyes to the ring, being turned ever so smoothly between those long fingers.

 

Sherlock does not remember the actual fight between his brother and the woman who supposedly gave birth to them both over what should be done with Siger’s ring, after his sudden passing. He does remember that Mycroft had wanted to keep it, and their mother had insisted it be buried with her husband. Sherlock still does not know exactly how Mycroft had recovered it from the grave their father had been laid into on the manor’s grounds. He knows with certainty, however, that before that night, Mycroft’s hands had been soft, delicate even. Though Mycroft would always have thin and nimble fingers, not unlike Sherlock’s own, they would never be considered soft again.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The detective looked up at the sound of his brother’s voice, surprised to see him after two weeks of silence. These feuds sometimes lasted for months, when they were both in the wrong, but didn’t want to admit, or hurt too much to do so. “Mycroft.”

 

Arms came up around him and Sherlock went stiff within them. They were in the sitting room. Sherlock had been deep within his Mind Palace and hadn’t even heard him come in. Now they stood there, pressed together for everal moments until finally, Mycroft pulled away. Mycroft straightened, pretending the embrace had never happened and Sherlock set his features, pretending he hadn’t felt a dampness in his hair. This wasn’t like Mycroft at all.

 

“This isn’t working,” Mycroft said, his voice barely above a whisper.

 

“I know,” Sherlock answered. He saw the tightening of his brother’s mouth.

 

“Perhaps we really should end it. That would be the sensible thing to do.”

 

As if Sherlock had ever been sensible.

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock agreed, his face impeccably impassive ever as his stomach dropped at the very thought.

 

“You have John. Certainly you wouldn’t resort to cocaine again.”

 

“Victor wasn’t enough.”

 

“No, but perhaps John will be. You never quite looked at Victor like you look at John.”

 

Sherlock snarled a bit. “Do not belittle--”

 

“I am not trying to belittle what you felt for Victor. You gave him everything you were capable of, at the time.”

 

Silence fell between them for a long moment.

 

“I see only one solution, Mycroft.”

 

That mouth tightened again. “Of course.”

 

Sherlock smiled at his brother wolfishly. “You’ll simply have to date John as well.”

 


	10. FIRST Date, Sherlock, First! (Entry 8, Day "17")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds himself surprised, and then outgunned. Figuratively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person. Terrible. I'm so sorry. I'll try and be faster next time.
> 
> Day "17" is Masturbation. I'm still picking the prompts out of a hat, but I could not have chosen better had I looked. I hope you all enjoy.

Mycroft was casually dressed. John couldn’t wrap his head around it.

 

Alright, so ‘casually’ was, in this case, a relative term, as the slacks Mycroft was wearing still likely cost more than John himself made in about three months, not to mention the tie... But he was sans suit jacket, and had even forgone his vest, and was thus more casually dressed than John had ever seen him.

 

And there was more to see than John might have thought, under those layers of fabric. He would have thought Mycroft more the type to taper his suits to emphasize his shape. He might not be rail thin like Sherlock, but certainly a bit thinner than John himself, though he’d never have thought so. John found himself conflicted by this lack of curve. He hadn’t much thought about it before, not in regards to Mycroft, at least, but there was a certain attractive quality about having something to grab onto. Lord knows he didn’t have that with Sherlock. Not that that wasn’t bloody fantastic regardless.

 

“Doctor Watson,” Mycroft greeted him with a smile that seemed nearly genuine, if not for the ice coating the edges. Always at distance.

 

“I think just John would be appropriate, I mean, this is a... You know, date,” John managed to reply, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. What the hell was Sherlock thinking? There was simply no way this was going to work, not without a Sherlock-shaped barrier. What else could they possibly have in common?

 

“Quite.” Mycroft’s raised eyebrow said more than his words.

 

"Sorry, are you feeling less awkward than I am? Sherlock shoved you into this as much as he did me, so I'd appreciate not feeling like the only one out of his depth, alright?" John huffed, and managed to get a smile out of Mycroft, that one that said 'oh, aren't you a tiny bit clever/interesting/daring after all?'

 

"Of course, Dr. Watson-- John," Mycroft allowed. "You have my most sincere apologies. I forget sometimes how refreshingly... straight forward you prefer to be."

 

John grinned, "I suppose I would be, to someone like you. Political intrigue, and a lover who can't admit that he appreciates what you do for him with his dying breath."

  
  


"You learn to read between the lines, as they say, when your life revolves around Sherlock Holmes."

 

"God, don't let him hear you say that. He's pig-headed enough as it is."

 

From this, John got what he was certain was his first, genuine laugh from Mycroft Holmes.

 

***

 

Dinner was an excellent affair. They settled on a nice, small restaurant John had never heard of, but which did not prove to be overly fancy. He had worried about that, actually, when he had let Sherlock talk him into this date. Mycroft seemed to have anticipated John's discomfort with formality, however, and the result was a cozy, and private feeling space. If John had been on a date with a woman, he might have called it dreadfully romantic. With Mycroft it felt more... Thoughtful, if not ensnaring.

 

He hadn't known Mycroft's eyes could sparkle like that. Just-controlled mirth, his hand half covering a smirk that threatened to become a full-out smile. It was charming, but in the most self-conscious of ways, and John had to wonder how long it had been since Mycroft had been able to let go like this. And he had only checked his phone once.

 

"The government isn't going to fall because I've stolen you for dinner, is it?" John asked with a smile.

 

"Hmm? No, I have, oh, what was that name she used with you? ' _Anthea_ ' taking care of things for me, for now. If there were anything she could not handle, she would call me. But she's really a most capable assistant." Mycroft was perusing the dessert menu, looking a bit like he was having an internal battle over it.

 

"I don't see why you can't indulge," John prompted, picking up his own desert menu to cover a slight blush. "The, uh, the diet seems to be going well. I'd never have known it from the way you wear your suits."

 

A thin layer of ice settled over Mycroft's expression again and John knew he had ventured into territory where he was unwelcome. "Yes. Actually, I have found that people find me less threatening, with a bit more weight on my frame. I have never been as striking as Sherlock, but I can get a bit... Bond villain, if I am not careful."

 

John huffed out a laugh, glad for the gateway back into less charged waters. "Oh, fantastic, a Holmes who can make cultural references. How did Sherlock get this old without having seen a single Bond film?"

 

That little smirk came back, along with an arched eyebrow. "I'm sure you've seen my brother's reaction to anything he finds less than necessary information entering his hard-drive."

 

"Sure, but clearly you manage it, and it doesn't seem to be cluttering up _your_ mind."

 

Mycroft sat back a bit in his chair, seeming to mull over John's words. "Using Sherlock's computer analogy, one might say that I have a larger memory space than Sherlock does. I can hold and process more information than Sherlock can on his best of days. However, he might argue that his speed at processing information exceeds my own. Regardless, I have found that ours is a different sort of intelligence from one another, affected, perhaps, by our very different outlooks."

 

John thought that over for a moment, then smiled. "That... Made more sense, I think, than anything Sherlock has ever said to me."

 

This startled a laugh out of Mycroft, a small victory, and the tension of a few moments ago was forgotten.

 

***

 

"This was fun," John admitted, grinning at the end of the night. They had finished their dinner and gone for a stroll instead of heading right back to 221b. Mycroft was easily as observant as Sherlock, of course, but unlike the thin genius, he seemed not to have any qualms explaining the deduction process in such a way that John could understand. Simple deductions, 'That fold in his pants, what sort of position might have caused that?', rather than 'John! It's obvious by the mustard stain on his tie that he's an accountant!" or some such insanity. It made for a pleasant end to their evening, and John had to wonder if he had taught Sherlock in much the same way. Or perhaps Sherlock had just taught himself, clever, lonely boy that he must have been.

 

"Yes," Mycroft agreed, tapping his umbrella twice, despite the fact that it was not wet, before opening the door to the building ahead of John and holding it for him. The doctor gave him another little smile before slipping past him and up the stairs. He heard Mycroft falling into step behind him, and returned the favor once they reached the door into their flat, letting Mycroft slip past him and into the sitting room.

 

Sherlock was curled up in his chair, fast asleep. John couldn’t help but grin at the unusual sight, but supposed it was sure to happen. Sherlock hadn’t come to bed in about three days now; His body was bound to give out on him sooner or later. Mycroft looked at his brother with a thinly veiled expression of affection, and John had to wonder if Sherlock might have been woken with a kiss, under other circumstances.

 

“No, Doctor, I do believe it would be best to let him sleep. I’ll just bid you goodnight,” Mycroft answered without John having to voice his thoughts, his mind reading abilities uncanny as always.

 

John flushed a bit. “Right. Er, goodnight, Mycroft. I had a good time.”

 

“As did I, John.” They stood in silence for a moment, and John considered if he should kiss his date goodbye. Mycroft made the decision for him, however, with a strangely understanding smile and a tip of his head. He was out the door before John could protest.

 

John was still looking at the closed door when he heard Sherlock stir behind him. He turned to see the currently rumpled genius sit up. “You didn’t have sex with him.”

 

“Did you expect me to, on the first date?” John asked with a little laugh.

 

“I expected you to want to.”

 

“Not on the first date, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looked unimpressed. “We could have all done it together.”

 

“FIRST date, Sherlock.” John said it with emphasis this time, figuring it might get through.

 

“You shagged me after our first date,” the detective retorted, presumably referring to their night at Angelo’s. John flushed.

 

“Sure, but we were already together before that.”

 

“I fail to see the difference.”

 

“Fail to... Jesus, Sherlock.”

 

A little smirk crossed Sherlock’s face. “You always surprise me, when you get so proper.”

 

“They’re common social skills,” John argued, flushing a bit more red against his will.

 

“I could describe it for you. Sex with Mycroft.”

 

And damn if John didn’t feel his cock twitch.

 

“He’s very good with his hands. He would bring you to the edge with only his fingers in your arse. Would you beg for it, John? I think you would.” Sherlock smiled deviously.

 

“Sherlock...” God, he was getting hard. He couldn’t let Sherlock play him like this.

 

“I would watch from the corner, let my brother bugger you into that terribly large bed of his. I’d love to see him stretch you. He’s thicker than me.”

 

Suddenly the image of Mycroft’s erect member, at least how he pictured it might be, was in John’s mind and didn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave. Blushing furiously, he sputtered out, “Sh-Sherlock, really!” And then pulled it together enough to add, “I’m going to shower before bed. Try to grow up, in the mean time.”

 

Nevermind that he had showered right before the date. Nevermind that this very subject matter was proof of how ‘grown up’ Sherlock was.

 

Fleeing to the bathroom, John turned on the shower and stripped. His hand was on himself before he was even beneath the spray, and damned if he wasn’t sure that Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, but at least this way, John’s fantasies were on his own terms.

  
If he wasn’t careful, these Holmes brothers would be the end of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are love. Please and thank you.


	11. I Dream Of Mycroft (Entry 9, Day "19")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock reveals John's fantasies, and decides it is time to move their relationship forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out, I've become a slow writer in my old age. (I'm feeling old because I graduate college next term. Which is more likely the reason I have gotten slower, but I live in a world of denial and hypotheticals). 
> 
> So, I'm sorry this fic hasn't been updated since November 26th. I'm sorry. That is 50 days, almost two months, and I have no excuse, really. But it is not abandoned. I promise.
> 
> Day 19 is oral sex.

“You’re experiencing sexual dreams involving Mycroft and fellato.”

 

“Dammit, Sherlock, don’t say things like that in public,” John hissed, feeling an unwelcome blush spread over his cheeks.

 

Sherlock frowned at him, “There is no one here. Really, John, you’re being unreasonable.”

 

John sighed and leaned back against the counter behind Sherlock. The detective was making use of the facilities of St. Bart’s once more and the army doctor found it was best to ensure the sardonic genius was chaperoned. And yes, Molly was off grabbing lunch, and they were rarely interrupted here by anyone else, but surely Sherlock understood the need for a bit of tact?

 

“I’m not even going to ask how you deduced that, just please, try not to talk about mine and Mycroft’s relationship in public, yeah?” He crossed his arms over his chest.

 

The detective sat back in his chair, jaw twitching as his massive intellect tried to process this information. Finally he moved to look back through to microscope, flippantly dismissing John’s argument, “It’s not as if he’s _your_ brother.”

 

“Sherlock!” John groaned, covering his eyes in exasperation. “No, of course not, but he is _yours_ , and everyone knows I’m dating you. You don’t think that it might get complicated if they knew I was dating your brother as well?”

 

Sherlock pushed back from the table again, looking frustrated. “Yes, well, I don’t see why it should bother any of those idiots if it doesn’t bother me.”

 

“Doesn’t mean people wouldn’t be bothered and makes things more difficult, socially.”

 

“Tch. Archaic moral standards. Tell me, John, are you intending to pop out an heir now I might have to be concerned about the paternity of?” Sherlock eyed him head to toe with a look of displeasure. “That might explain a few things.”

 

“No. No,” John growled, “You don’t get to use insults about my weight on me. I’m not Mycroft, it won’t work.”

 

“... Tch.”

 

John shook his head, rolling his eyes at his lover’s childish antics. “Alright. I’m going to go get a sandwich. I’d ask if you wanted one, but I already know the answer. Try to grow up in the meantime.”

 

“Never.”

 

John pretended he wasn’t grinning a bit when he stepped out.

 

***

 

Sherlock pulled Mycroft close, wanting to kiss him more deeply. His mind was racing with a thousand half formed plans and he couldn’t get over the fact that John was there, watching them from his chair and his face was flushed with arousal. Sherlock felt himself already straining against his pants, though his brother still had those gentle hands on his hips, patient. Sherlock mounted his lap, growling softly into his mouth. Mycroft chuckled in return.

 

This moment was overdue. Mycroft should have been laid out over their sofa weeks ago. Sherlock should be in the middle of a very ardent pair of lovers by now, instead of just now convincing them that ‘dates’ were overrated and _sex_ was fantastic. At least, sex with appreciative-of-his-genius-and-not-entirely-idiotic people was fantastic. He was certain that sex with Anderson would probably be quite terrible, and oh, why had he thought that now?

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, voice soft, a hand cupping his chin. Sherlock grit his teeth defensively, but his brother merely kissed him again, loosening his jaw, and dispelling all thoughts of Anderson to the ‘delete promptly’ section of his mind palace. Mycroft smiled at him, thumb tickling across his cheekbone, then murmured, “Give him the show you’ve been dreaming about.”

 

Moaning, Sherlock let himself slip between his brother’s legs and pulled open his slacks. Mycroft was prepared and without pants on, which caused a moan from behind Sherlock. The detective closed his eyes and imagined that John was palming his cock through his trousers already. Nuzzling into Mycroft’s musk, Sherlock gave the appendage a little lick, and got a soft sigh and another little chuckle for his efforts. Mycroft wasn’t feeling rushed today, as he so seldom did, and teasing him would do no more than frustrate both Sherlock and John themselves.

 

That in mind, Sherlock eased his brother’s penis from its confines and took it into his mouth.

 

“God, Sherlock,” John breathed from behind him, and Sherlock bobbed his head in response, taking more of that familiar sexual organ between his lips. Mycroft rested a gentle hand in his hair, and the younger Holmes began to suck more eagerly, a hand reaching down to touch himself through his pants, his trousers long ago tossed aside in favor of giving John a better view.

 

“Good boy,” Mycroft praised, his voice low and tender, trying to coax Sherlock into a state of subspace. Sherlock wasn’t certain that he was ready to go there, not entirely, in front of John, but he twirled his tongue appropriately and met Mycroft’s eyes. Understanding met him, as it always did. “Do you think we should let John touch you?”

 

Sherlock smiled a bit, letting his reach his eyes when his full mouth prevented it from his lips, and wondered if John knew how very badly he wanted that. He knew how badly John wanted it, from the unmistakable, soft smack of skin behind him.

 

“No, you’re right,” Mycroft mused, his teasing eyes resting on a groaning John. “He deserves a show. Shagging you can wait until afterwards. If we decide you’ve earned it.”

 

Sherlock and John both moaned at that, and the younger Holmes wondered how Mycroft could ever expect him to last that long. Probably he didn’t, and simply planned to make Sherlock cum again. And probably again after that. They had never managed more than three times in a night, but most evenings, Mycroft felt he might have the energy to coax Sherlock to a new record.

 

“Please, Mycroft,” John managed, his voice sounding a bit strangled, “Don’t tease.”

 

That thumb caressed his cheek again. “Then tell me what you want, Doctor, and we can get on with things.”

 

There was a silence and Sherlock simply concentrated on his task of trying to drive his brother mad. Finally, John answered in a low voice.

 

“Fuck his mouth. God, please.”

 

Mycroft laughed and moved to comply. With a tap to his shoulder, he had Sherlock moving onto the sofa on all fours, his cock popping out from between Sherlock’s lips just long enough to make the move. Sherlock whimpered softly at the empty feeling, but Mycroft only too gladly filled him again, and then he was thrusting and oh god, but--

 

“Sherlock?”

 

John. Not turned on John, just usual, normal John.

 

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and there was his lover, standing concerned by his side. And they weren’t home at all, but still at the lab, in St. Barts. Sherlock cursed under his breath.

 

“Should have known. Mycroft wasn’t wearing pants.” Mycroft hadn’t gone without pants since before completing his A levels. Sherlock had done a proper study on it.

 

“What? Jesus, Sherlock, I came back from getting a coffee to find you passed out on this table. How long since you last slept?”

 

Right, he had lain down on this embalming table to have a proper think, and must have fallen asleep. And dreamed about Mycroft and fellato. Sherlock took a moment to mentally rebuke his body for its weakness, and John, for bringing that fantasy to the forefront of his subconscious. “Just now, apparently.”

 

“I’m serious, Sherlock, when? And I mean proper sleep, not just coming up to my room to stare at _me_ sleeping.”

 

Ah, so he had noticed that.

 

“Four days ago,” Sherlock answered flippantly, omitting that that occasion would also qualify more as a ‘kip’ than ‘proper sleep’ in John’s skewed view of appropriate sleep levels.

 

John sighed, “That’s it, we’re going home. You’re going to go to bed, and I’m going to text Mycroft about getting you some sedatives for emergencies.”

 

Rather than scoff about the sedatives, Sherlock latched onto the idea of Mycroft. “Yes, Mycroft, I need to see him. Urgent.”

 

John frowned, “For the case? It can wait.”

“It really can’t,” Sherlock returned. He had waited long enough. It was time he had both of his lovers at the same time. Though really, he might accidentilly lock himself and John in a closet, and conveniently lose the key, for just a bit, before they went.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon. Maybe. I miss Mycroft.
> 
> Comments are love. Think I'm a tease? Feel free to leave me angry comments too. I deserve them, for this chapter. -No regrets-


	12. Unexpected, thy name is John Watson (Entry 10, Day "2")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not the outcome that Sherlock had expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, look! Less than a month!
> 
> So, this was supposed to be finished last week. Instead, I got to deal with a ten day week between work, and school (midterms), because we had a freak snowstorm, and I live close enough to my job that they're like "Oh good, cover ALL the shifts!" So, that was fun. But it still got finished, just a but late. Yay me.
> 
> Prompt from the hat is "Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned", which is day "2". So, keep that in mind as you read this. You're welcome.

“Sometimes I forget that you two are actually geniuses,” John sighed, shaking his head at the two brothers as they glared at each other over a cluedo board. John himself resolutely refused to play, and the Holmes boys had stopped even making ‘guesses’ and had taken to sniping at each other to get the other to give up information. It might have been humorous, had it not made them seem even more like oversized children than usual.

 

“Don’t be foolish John, this makes more sense than the entire premise of this stupid game.” Sherlock sniffed.

 

“A game that you are not supposed to play with just two people, I might add,” John raised an eyebrow.

 

Sherlock scoffed, “Don’t do that. You look like Mycroft.”

 

“You like how Mycroft looks.”

 

“Mm, obviously,” the older Holmes chuckled. “Given the foot you have under the table.”

 

“I’m sorry, what?” John sighed and looked beneath the kitchen table to see Sherlock’s socked foot nestling itself intimately against Mycroft’s groin. After taking a moment to acknowledge that no one should have a poker face as good as Mycroft Holmes’, John sat back in his chair again and covered his eyes. “Sherlock. We agreed that we needed to spend more time together, all three of us, before moving to that step.”

 

“You agreed that, I said I was tired of waiting.”

 

“You were overruled, Sherlock,” Mycroft pointed out amiably.

 

“And yet you never objected to my foot being in your lap.”

 

“It seemed rude to do so.”

 

John scowled. “Sherlock. Two weeks. That’s all I asked.”

 

Sherlock smiled rakishly at him, “Oh? I seem to recall it differently.”

 

“You would, considering you were all but sticking your fingers in you ears singing ‘lalala’ like a child,” John grumbled, turning away from the brothers to collect himself.

 

Mycroft gave his lover a pointed look across their boardgame.

 

Sherlock hesitated, opening and then closing his mouth. “John,” he finally began, but the doctor just shook his head. Mycroft had always loved to tell him that he did not know when to quit. Sherlock was only just now beginning to see what he meant.

 

Moving slowly forward, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his sandy haired lover, tense, until John finally leaned back into him.

 

“This is important to you,” Sherlock murmured.

 

“It’s important to you,” John replied. “Not to wait, I mean.”

 

Sherlock fell silent for a moment, drafting his answer in his mind. “I want it, yes,” he finally managed, eloquently. How did one explain that he worried they were going to fall apart at any moment without acknowledging the physical commitments a relationship like this would require?

 

“I know,” John tilted his head back into Sherlock’s shoulder, “But I don’t want to rush this. It’s too important to take so lightly.”

 

“Your worries that sex will complicate the easy relationship we have formed are not unfounded,” Mycroft inserted, earning a harsh glare from Sherlock. “Because,” he continued, unfazed, “Sex nearly alway does complicate things. However, I do not think, John, that there is any chance of things becoming so complicated that it could destroy what you and Sherlock already have.”

 

John seemed to take this in. “And what about what I’m developing with you?”

 

Mycroft gave him a falsely lackadaisical smile, eyes a bit distant, “The options for a man like me are not so limitless that I would easily abandon a chance with someone like you, Doctor.”

 

John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked, surprised.

 

“I’m saying, let’s have sex. That’s what you wanted.”

 

“Don’t let us push you into this, John,” Mycroft warned softly, giving Sherlock a reprimanding look.

 

“No one’s pushing me into anything,” John said, “I’ve decided. I want to have sex with Mycroft. And... And Sherlock can watch this time. As punishment for the foot under the table.”

 

“Punishment...” Sherlock muttered, but John ignored him.

 

“Are you done with your game?” he asked Mycroft.

 

The elder Holmes smiled and pushed his chair back from the table. “Of course, Doctor Watson.”

 

“Great.”

 

The two men headed for Sherlock’s bedroom, leaving the youngest mouthing the word ‘punishment’ to himself a few more times to make sense of what had just happened. John Watson always was full of surprises.

 

***

 

Kissing John was different than kissing Sherlock in so many ways. Sherlock, at heart, was the pirate he’d always wanted to be as a child: plundering Mycroft with passionate ferocity. Outside of a scene, Sherlock was a selfish lover, take, take, taking until he had too much and had to give something away. It was the same as how he treated information, and perhaps sex really was just another form of information, for him.

 

John was a patient, attentive kisser, intent to thoroughly explore his partner’s mouth, while still managing to keep things so incredibly seductive that Mycroft wondered if he had finally met his match. Kissing John was enjoyable for all the opposite reasons as kissing Sherlock. Mycroft could not help just wonder what the balance of them would be like in his bed. The passionate familiarity of Sherlock and the tender temptation of John.

 

“May I?” John asked, breaking the kiss as his hands went to the buttons of Mycroft’s shirt, his suit jacket having been removed some time earlier in the evening.

 

Mycroft smiled and kissed him again, nimble hands moving to the hem of John’s jumper. The former army doctor laughed and began to remove Mycroft’s shirt. Soon they were both topless and Mycroft was hit by a familiar wave of body-shame. Sherlock was at his back immediately, his hands roaming over the gentle swell of Mycroft’s stomach. John chuckled and batted his hands away, to replace them with his own gentle caress, ending with his hands on Mycroft’s hips.

 

“Punishment, Sherlock,” he reminded, pressing his groin snugly against Mycroft’s. “This is mine, tonight. I don’t have to share.”

 

Sherlock made a sound that might have been a whimper, but Mycroft was a bit too distracted by the swell of John against him to pay it too much attention.

 

John kissed his jaw, every inch the ‘Three Continents’ Watson that Mycroft had read so many reports about. There was nearly a pur in his voice as he asked, “How would you like to do this?”

 

Mycroft clearly his throat. “I usually... prefer to be ‘on top’, so to speak.”

 

John laughed, “Alright, works for me.”

 

Kissing him again, John hooked his thumbs into Mycroft’s trousers, undulating their hips together in a way that made both Holmes’ breath catch.

 

Collecting himself, Mycroft gently removed both of their trousers, then stepped back to remove his own pants. John was looking at him like he’d like to do it with his teeth, and Mycroft didn’t know that he could handle that. He was beginning to get a better idea about John Watson, who pretended to be nothing more than a jumper full of kittens, but was in fact a charming bundle of sexual power and gun oil.

 

Middle age was making him nauseatingly poetic.

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft said, his voice dipping low, “Remove your trousers. I’m sure John doesn’t mind if you find some pleasure for yourself through this.”

 

John smiled, “I might be insulted if he didn’t.”

 

Then they were kissing again and John was guiding Mycroft onto Sherlock’s bed, where they had both had the detective countless time, but now they were going to...

 

“You don’t have to be nervous, Mycroft,” John whispered, their mouths nearly touching.

 

“I’m not nervous, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft tried to assure him, and hoped it didn’t sound as false as ‘I’m not lonely’ normally did from his mouth.

 

“You are. It’s alright, you’re used to being in control. With Sherlock especially.”

 

Of course he would have noticed that. He had to learn to stop underestimating the good doctor.

 

“I’m not like that,” John said, his hands moving sensually over Mycroft’s pale skin, “But that doesn’t mean this can’t be good. I can be something else for you. An experiment in release.”

 

Mycroft closed his eyes, understanding it even before John could say it. John would not ever be to him what he was to Sherlock, and he didn’t need to be, because a dominant was not what Mycroft needed. An equal, rather, was what his mind yearned for. And as close as Sherlock could come to his mental match, perhaps John could do the same on a more base, physical and emotional level.

 

“Yes,” He answered, taking John’s mouth again and guiding him back onto the bed. John obligingly spread his legs for him, welcoming Mycroft’s touch with an encouraging moan. Grabbing the lubricant and a condom from the bedside drawer (of course he knew where they were, but hopefully John wouldn’t be upset about it right now-- so far, he didn’t seem to mind) Mycroft slicked his fingers, patiently warming the gel, while thinking why this moment felt... monumental.

 

John’s gaze when he looked up was on Sherlock, which made Mycroft smile a bit. John met his eyes again and smiled back.

 

“Touching himself already,” John informed him, as if Mycroft couldn’t tell.

 

“This is his deepest fantasy, my dear, moreso even than being between us.”

 

Sherlock moaned softly from behind him at the mention.

 

“But perhaps not as much as having the both of us inside of him,” Mycroft allowed, enjoying the groan from Sherlock and the blush that spread over John’s face. Kissing that expression away, he began to gently prep him, enjoying this moment of having control again.

 

It wasn’t until he was deep inside John that he realized the tables were about to shift again. Barely fully seated, Mycroft felt John begin to rhythmically clench his around him, making the government official clench his teeth with the effort not to be taken prematurely. John smiled at him and rolled his hips in that sinful way of his.

 

“It doesn’t have to be long, just fantastic,” John teased, “We’re not young men, we should do what we like.”

 

Mycroft chuckled, “I believe you have issued a challenge, Doctor, please be prepared to get what you wish for.” He gave John a few hard thrusts just to see his mouth open in surprise. “With age, comes experience, after all. Perhaps it does not have to last long, but that does not mean it won’t.”

 

“Fuck me then.” John said, a bit breathless. Mycroft smirked and was only too happy to do just that. He slammed into his new lover with a fierce intensity, only to find that every thrust was met with a roll of the doctor’s hips and a clenching of his inner walls. The sounds of Sherlock stroking himself furiously behind them added to the symphony from the slapp of their bodies, driving Mycroft to new heights of fervor. He couldn’t look away from John’s face, contorted with pleasure, his mouth open in an ongoing series of moans. In the end, it did not last quite as long as Mycroft had wanted to prove, as he found himself done in by the sounds of his down lovers approaching their individual orgasms. In the end, he had taken John’s cock into his hand and let the doctor thrust up into his fist in time with Mycroft’s own gyrations, until his release coated his fingers and dappled John’s midsection. Sherlock’s moan of completion was close behind, sounding much like it from from between bit lips.

  
Mycroft’s own was soon to follow, and if it came out sounding embarrassingly like John’s own name, he hoped neither of the others would mention it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you keep the prompt in mind? Originally, "Awkward sex / things that don’t go as planned" was going to mean Sherlock did not get his way at all. But I've been enough of a tease these past few chapters. And John really wanted to sleep with Mycroft.
> 
> Comments are love. Thanks, everyone, for sticking with me. <3


	13. Rumours and Thumps (Entry 11, Day "11")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Hudson hear some surprising things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another two parter. I'm sorry, it just has not been happening. I wrote most of this the day after I last posted, then just... ugh. Sorry. I figured it was best to post the first half. Hopefully the rest will follow soon.
> 
> Day 11 is "Explaining Their Relationship To A Disapproving Third Party"

“I’m telling you,” Anderson insisted, “John Watson was kissing this other man right on the street!”

Lestrade growled and put his case file down on his desk, looking up at the other man from beneath furrowed eyebrows. “What are you even talkin’ about? The bet is over, Anderson, there’s no need to keep making shit up.”

“I’m not making anything up!”

“Look, I know, you thought John was straight, but clearly there is a little wiggleroom there, alright? We’ve all seen him snog Sherlock right here at the Yard,” Lestrade scowled and shook his head.

“Yes, but it was someone else,” Anderson said, exasperated. “You’re their friend, are you not worried about it? I am.”

“You’re not their friend,” Lestrade reminded.

“No, but I’m still worried. If John Watson’s cheating, Holmes might snap at any moment! We could have a new serial killer on our hands!”

Lestrade reached for the right top-hand drawer of his desk, seeking the painkillers he usually kept there. “See, problem is, this really isn’t any of your business, is it?”

Anderson’s face contorted in frustration, “No, I--”

“Great then. Get out of my office,” Lestrade said, patience worn thin after half an hour of this conversation. When Anderson just continued to splutter, he dropped his voice to a growl. “Out!”

Most of the Yarders knew better than to bother Lestrade when he got that Detective-Inspector tone. Anderson, thank God, was no different, and disappeared into the bullpen, door closing behind him. Lestrade took his pills and massaged his forehead. Anderson was full of crap, that much was true. If it was John he saw, the doctor probably had a very good explanation. John wouldn’t just betray Sherlock like that.

But now he had Lestrade curious.

***

“Why aren’t yours married yet?” Mrs. Turner was asking as Mrs. Hudson poured her tea.

“Oh, they’ve only just come out about it, Dear, give them time! They’ve been, what’s the phrase? ‘In the closet’. Not that they were fooling me or anyone else, mind you. I think poor John was embarrassed, poor dear,” The other old woman prattled, sitting down to her own cuppa across the table. She fixed her tea busily, just the way she liked it, without looking up at her frequent guest. Mrs. Turner was doing just the same.

“Young couples move too fast today anyway,” Mrs. Turner said primly, taking her first sip. The water was just under a boil and scorched her mouth, but that was just how tea was meant to be, in her opinion, as Mrs. Hudson well knew by now.

“True, but they’re lovely boys, and so committed to each other. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was even a wee one, by the time the year is out! Oh, wouldn’t that be lovely? Little feet on Baker street.” Considering she thought of the boys as her own, Mrs. Hudson was quite sure that meant any baby of theirs was hers by rights as well.

“Hopefully it will be the blonde one’s,” Mrs. Turner said sourly, “He’s such a kind man, but that other...”

“Oh, hush! Sherlock is just a bit difficult is all. He’s stuck in his terrible twos still, but he’ll grow out of it. And he’s very sweet to me, when he gets down to it. But, oh, the mess he makes...! It can’t be safe for a baby.”

“Too right, he’ll have to clean up his act, if they’re thinking about a child,” Mrs. Turner returned sagely. Only too happy to carry on as if this baby talk was concrete, rather than speculation, Mrs. Hudson readied a reply, only to be cut off by a loud crash from above. She frowned at the ceiling.

“What on earth could they be up to? And with Mycroft over and all...”

***

John was fairly certain he must be getting old. After that first time with Mycroft, he had thought a floodgate must be opening, and couldn’t imagine ever getting enough of this, and yet, most of the time, it was more like what was happening right now: Soft touches on the couch, all three sprawled together with John carefully sandwiched in between. It was the only way the two brothers agreed to have this much physical contact. 

Or so they said. Being quite familiar with Sherlock’s habits, John was well aware of how much Sherlock craved attention. And, for all of his blustering, Mycroft was the type to communicate affection through seemingly casual touches. It wasn’t difficult to imagine them stretched out together, Mycroft carefully settled and Sherlock draping himself on top of him possessively. 

“Mycroft, you’re in the way,” Sherlock growled, shoving his brother’s arm away to better mold himself to John’s side. The doctor sighed, wondering if they always bickered like this anyway, even when no one was around to see. It sort of ruined his mental image. Even now, Mycroft was just raising his eyebrow at the interruption in his well practiced fashion.

Growling again, Sherlock moved like a feral cat, arm swiping out at Mycroft’s belly, surely to be accompanied by a verbal jab. Rather than allow them to catch him in the middle of a Holmesian brawl, however, John just gave Sherlock a shove, laughing as he fell from the couch.

Sherlock spluttered indignantly up at him, his mouth moving without sound. Sitting up between Mycroft’s legs, John leant over to kiss his bewildered lover, enjoying the feel of Mycroft’s chuckle, moving through his body where the two of theirs connected. He could really get used to this, he was thinking, these moments where the outside world didn’t exist and he got to see the sides to both of these men that the rest of society had to do without. It was nice, having all of their attention on him like this.

Unfortunately, he would reflect later, it did lead to not one of the three of them noticing the footsteps on the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two is coming soon. Who's on the stairs?


	14. Rumours and Thumps, Part 2 (Entry 11.5, Day "11")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The person at the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terrible and short. So sorry. This is my last term of college. I might be having a tiny freakout.

There were a lot of ways Sherlock had imagined this scenario might go, if Mrs. Hudson ever found out about things between himself and Mycroft. He had planned every situation through to the end, and he’d thought he had accounted for everything. It had never occurred to him that she might catch them like this, post John, with the so named man between the legs of Sherlock’s own brother, with Sherlock himself sprawled out undignifiedly on the floor.

 

She was looking between them nervously, clearly not sure how to interpret the situation. John himself was white with shock, but still, and Mycroft had yet to show any reaction. Opening his mouth, John slowly began to speak, “Mrs. Hudson…”

 

“JOHN WATSON! YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF!” Mrs. Hudson bellowed, the intensity of her rage making even Captain Watson cringe back a bit in a way he never would from a fist, or a gun.

 

“Mrs. Hudson--” He tried again, but their landlady had started her rampage and would not be stopped.

 

“I swear! You’ve been living here for years now and I thought I knew you, but to think you’d do something like this! Oh, Sherlock,” she cried, turning to him on the floor, “Are you alright, dear? Were you hurt?”

 

Sherlock gave a barking laugh, enjoying the look of surprise that came over all of their faces.

 

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, you are a treasure,” he said, standing elegantly and kissing her cheek, causing a blush to spread over her confused face. “No one has hurt me. John and I are also in a relationship with Mycroft.”

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Oh, it’s not as if there’s any hiding it now,” Sherlock scowled defensively, then met Mycroft’s eyes over the top of John’s head. This seemed to remind the doctor that he was indeed still in the other’s lap and he scrambled off to sit beside him instead, blush spreading furiously. Mycroft’s expression shifted ever so slightly and Sherlock struggled for a brief moment to interpret that subtle cue. After a few seconds of deliberation, he decided that Mycroft was not upset and had also realized the relative inevitability of this moment.

 

“Well… Oh my,” Mrs Hudson said, slowly seeming to come to terms with what she had actually walked in on. “Well… I suppose, if John isn’t cheating after all… Well.” She straightened herself up and gave Mycroft what John had once whispered the Sherlock was called ‘The Mummy Finger’, “You treat my boys right, Mycroft Holmes! I’ve seen how you bicker, it’s ungainly!”

 

It was quite satisfying to see Mycroft blink owlishly at her, clearly not used to Mrs. Hudson’s reactions to the unorthodox in the way the Baker Street residents were. “Of course,” he said at last, getting a small smile in return.

 

“Good, well, if that’s all, I’ll be returning to my guest. Try not to knock around too much, would you boys? Ta,” Mrs. Hudson buzzed, heading for the door, already moving on from the newest oddity of her upstairs tenants.

 

Before she could leave, however, the door was opening again to reveal Detective-Inspector Lestrade. “Oi, John, are you buggering Mycroft Ho-- Oh.”

 

“Detective-Inspector,” Mycroft said, an icy smile forming on his lips, no small amount of satisfaction evident from having caught the Yarder off guard.

 

“Right, so, I’ll take that as a yes?” Lestrade replied slowly, scowling at both of the Holmes brothers. He then turned to John. “And I thought you said Sherlock was going to be busy all day at Bart’s?”

 

“Yeah, well, things came up. Wait, how come you knew about Mycroft?” John asked, not sure how all of these things seemed to be coalescing around him.

 

“Knew about Sherlock, and heard from Anderson you were out with some other bloke. Not much of a leap,” Lestrade shrugged.

 

“You knew?” Sherlock asked, an incredulous look coming over his face.

 

“Oi! I _am_ a detective, you know!”

 

“Hm. Apparently we have been in error, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, looking at Lestrade with new interest.

 

“Apparently so,” Sherlock muttered darkly.

 

John suddenly laughed, rubbing his hands over his face, “Who cares? Everyone important in our lives found out the same afternoon. I’d have thought you’d be in favor of efficiency!”

  
The brothers met each other’s eyes again and both smiled slightly to each other. Perhaps, of course, John was right. It had turned out for the best after all.


	15. Beginnings Are Sometimes As Painful As Endings (Entry 12, Day "12")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The temptation had begun when Mycroft was twenty-three.
> 
> Day "12"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at how cool I am? Not even that long between chapters! Don't get excited, who knows if this will ever happen again...
> 
> Day "12" is "The First Time They Have Sex"
> 
> Please enjoy.

The temptation had begun when Mycroft was twenty-three.

 

He had always been especially good at ignoring his physical and emotional needs, so really, it hadn’t even occurred to him that he _wanted_ until Sherlock was already naked in his bed, one Christmas eve. He felt himself stiffen at the sight of his little brother, sprawled out with defiant eyes in the one place he had seemed to desperately avoid since he was eleven years old and Mycroft ‘betrayed him’ by going off to university. Sherlock was naked, with a hand resting on his genitals, but not in the way that one might try to hide them from view.

 

So for the first time in months, Mycroft felt the slow burn of impending arousal, only to stomp it resolutely down under the heel of his expensive shoes. He would not be tempted into this, not by Sherlock, who never took anything seriously, and not with someone who was underage. And his brother. The moral implications were too great for someone with aspirations like Mycroft’s.

 

“This is a turn up, isn’t it?” Mycroft said coolly, not reacting visibly past his scant seconds of initial surprise. “What game is this, then, Brother Dear?”

 

“No game, Mycroft. I’ve waited.”

 

A tingle went through him before he could help it, but Mycroft remained stoic. “In vain, brother.”

 

Sherlock slammed a fist into the headboard, cracking hundred year old wood beneath bloodied knuckles. “Do not toy with me, Mycroft. We both know better. You want this too. You have to.”

 

Looking at his nearly sixteen year old brother, the elder Holmes felt something close to pity. Sherlock really didn’t understand the reality of the world they lived in. In his eyes, this was not only a possibility, but an inevitability; Two great minds meeting, understanding and supporting each other. A matched set.

 

Sherlock flinched under his gaze.

 

“Sherlock, what you are proposing is impossible,” Mycroft said, voice gentle with resolution. “It cannot, and will not, ever happen. Now, let me see to your hand please.”

 

“TO HELL WITH MY HAND!” Sherlock shouted. Mycroft couldn’t hide his wince.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

The younger Holmes was already on his feet, pulling his trousers on and stomping from the room. Mycroft hesitated, and then let him go, thinking things would be better in the morning. Surely this had all been a wild game after all, and his brother was merely sulking that he hadn’t managed to make Mycroft the butt of his joke. Everything would be better in the morning.

 

That Christmas, however, Sherlock would turn up missing, and it would be three days before they heard from him again, having set his own broken finger and locked himself away in a shed at the edge of the property until the holiday had ended and Mycroft agreed to return to London a whole week early. 

 

***

 

Sherlock’s grades were worse than they had ever been. Their mother kept sending Mycroft letters, beseeching him to try and intervene, but it had been some time since Sherlock had listened to a thing Mycroft told him. Since long before... That Night. And he had refused to even think about That Night since it had happened. It was something best forgotten, and in time Sherlock would see that too. If it hadn’t been a prank gone awry. Which it most certainly had been.

 

The Christmas holiday was looming once again, a full year had nearly past, and Mycroft still found the memories of That Night plagued his subconscious. Having found that he did not dream when he was properly tired out, he had made a point of working himself to exhaustion every day for the past three months. His  rising position in the government had never looked more certain, and he found that he didn’t much mind having to give up what scarce acquaintances he had excused as a social life. Sex was by this point out of the question. The last time he had made an attempt to sate his physical urges, he had found himself charming a young brunette in a less reputable bar, only realizing when he was deep inside her that her curls reminded him fiercely of Sherlock.

 

It was only too easy to feel the coming landslide from there, as his mind immediately replaced her moans with thoughts of what sounds his brother might make in this position. Only too natural to envision hard angles where she had soft curves. Only too simple to imagine Sherlock’s short curls bouncing as Mycroft rammed into him, and--

 

He was embarrassed to say that he had cum with that vision in his mind, and mortifyingly quickly, compared to his usual stamina. Ever the gentleman, Mycroft had finished her off, but his passion for her had withered and died in a now forbidden sector of Mycroft’s vast mind. He was a logical man, and he was having illogical responses to what should have been neutral, or even negative stimulus. It had to end.

 

And since then, Mycroft felt positive that he had himself back under control. His waking thoughts of Sherlock were strictly fraternal, and his dreams were no longer remembered. Occasionally he did wake up slick with sweat and aroused like some hormone-raging teenager, but it was simple enough to convince himself he must have been dreaming about someone else, anyone else, rather than dreaming of Sherlock.

 

This hypothesis was disproved, as came Christmas.

 

***

 

“Mycroft, fuck me,” Sherlock was moaning, a new tactic to the same old game as the younger Holmes fisted his own cock on Mycroft’s bed. The crack in the headboard remained as a stark reminder to the failure of the previous year. “God, please, My, I need you.”

 

Mycroft grit his teeth and closed his eyes, knowing that there had to be a solution to this that did not involve another broken phalange or one of Sherlock’s nomadic temper tantrums. Logic was his weapon and his shield, the growing bulge in his trousers, the double agent working against him. It did not help that the forbidden wing of his mind was whispering filth about how Sherlock would be seventeen in a month’s time, and at that point, a legal adult. Mycroft found his mouth going dry even as he firmly reminded that part of himself (when had it grown? God) that intercourse between relations was illegal whether they were consenting adults or not.

 

“This needs to end, Sherlock,” he whispered, hearing the moans devolve to stuttering gasps as Sherlock quieted himself to listen. Mycroft opened his eyes and looked into the deep opal of his brother’s, flickering in the soft light of the bedroom, lit only by Mycroft’s soothing aromatherapy candles. He would need to choose a new scent, or risk associating it with the sight before him now. “This cannot happen. I will not allow it to happen. The body is a tool, Sherlock, and you are letting it rule your mind. Your powers of deduction are useless to you this way. Surely you can see that? If nothing else, you need to finish your education. I get letters every week about your declining progress. This is diluting your mind.”

 

The hand on Sherlock’s erection had ceased by the time Mycroft had finished speaking, and he was looking at Mycroft with sparks in his eyes. “School is pointless. There is nothing they can teach me that I need to know. I know it all already. The instructors are idiots and the students are useless. My mind aches, Mycroft. It is rotting! You’re what I need, the only person in the world who understands me.”

 

“You are mistaking your need for companionship with a physical need for sexual completion. I can offer you the first, Brother dear, but not the second.”

 

“The tent in your trousers says differently,” Sherlock argued, slinking from the bed to press against his brother, ankle to shoulder. Mycroft remained resolutely still.

 

“You may visit me in London on your breaks. We can play chess like we used to and deduce people from my window. But this, Sherlock, will never go any farther. I will not allow you to destroy your future. I will not destroy it for you,” Mycroft said, hands pushing gently against Sherlock’s shoulders to move him away. He look of confusion on Sherlock’s eyes suddenly made him look so much younger, and Mycroft was glad for what he had done.

 

Stepping back, Mycroft watched as the walls went up in his brother’s expression, sealing himself away from Mycroft, to keep his pain hidden. Mycroft understood, but knew that it was for the best. Sherlock left the room through the bathroom adjoining their bedrooms, and nothing more was said about it.

 

***

 

Sherlock had stopped answering Mycroft’s letters, though responses had been rare enough in the past anyway. Updates from their mother revealed that Sherlock was doing just enough in school that he would certainly graduate, if not with the honors that he could have easily acquired, had he applied himself even a fraction. He declined all of Mycroft’s invitations to visit, and the one time the elder Holmes was able to make his way to the estate, Sherlock was sullen and distant.

 

That year, Christmas came and went without Mycroft managing to leave his desk, smoothing over some tedious, but essential conflicts with the Hungarian government, and Mycroft found himself wondering what he might have come home too, in his bed that Christmas Eve. He certainly hoped they were past all of that nonsense, though, of course.

 

***

 

Sherlock had managed to make it into University, and actually seemed to be thriving there, if the tabs Mycroft kept on him were to be relied upon. Able to concentrate almost solely on the chemistry he so adored, Sherlock managed to rate the top grades in all of his classes. There was evidence, also, of some scattered human interaction, and hints, even, of a prospective boyfriend in the guise of one Sebastian Wilkes. Mycroft had of course done a precursory background check on the man and found nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed a bit pompous by nature, but then, that same word could easily be used to describe Sherlock.

 

Three months later, Mycroft would find himself filling out the paperwork to bail Sherlock out of jail, however, for assault and battery charges against one Sebastian Wilkes.

 

“Assault and battery!” Sherlock thundered on the sidewalk as Mycroft steered him calmly towards a waiting black car. They were a new perk of his position. “He dared to claim I just _attacked him_! As if, if I had wanted to hurt him properly I wouldn’t have been able to MURDER HIM AND HIDE THE BODY WHERE THEY’D NEVER FIND IT!” This last bit was yelled back at the doors of the station.

 

Rubbing at the start of a migraine, Mycroft pushed Sherlock down into back seat of the car, climbing in after him. “Really, Sherlock, try not to make too much of a scene. It will never make it to your records.”

 

“Sod my records!”

 

“Yes, sod them indeed,” Mycroft sneered back, but found that even under these circumstances, he was glad to see his brother again. “What, pray tell, even led to these... interesting circumstances? Dare I even ask?”

 

Sherlock growled and mumbled something that Mycroft couldn’t catch.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Sex, I said,” Sherlock spat. “He wanted it, I didn’t. He got handsy.”

 

Mycroft’s mouth set into a grim line. “I see.”

 

“You don’t,” Sherlock snorted, “You’ve never seen this.”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You have never seen me, when it comes to this. You push me away, you tell me what I’m feeling, but you’ve never seen it. I want to have sex with you--” Mycroft’s eyes widened and he looked towards the front of the car, only to be relieved to see the privacy screen was up. “-- and only you. You think I don’t understand, but you’re the one who doesn’t understand and my mind is burning, burning without anything that can silence it, but you can, Mycroft, you’ve always had that ability. You’re the only one to understand my mind enough to do it.”

 

Silence fell between them. Mycroft couldn’t doubt the sincerity of Sherlock’s words when he said them like this, clothed and without the pretense of tricking Mycroft into bed. But that didn’t mean that he was right.

 

“Sherlock, if you tried it with someone else, you might find--”

 

Sherlock’s cold laughter cut through his statement. “Your surveillance isn’t as good as you think, if you’re under the impression that I am a virgin.”

 

This stunned Mycroft back into silence. Sherlock had...? A hot stab of jealousy ripped through him and the elder Holmes had to trample it down before it could blaze into an inferno. “Sherlock...”

 

“Kiss me.”

 

“What?”

 

“Kiss me, just once,” Sherlock dared, his eyes sharp and clear as Mycroft had ever seen them.

 

The chance to prove Sherlock wrong was there, in that invitation to a kiss, but so was the floodgate to Mycroft’s darkest desires. Three years of suppressed longing, bricked up in an ever expanding corner of his brain. The temptation was as great now as it had been that night, nearly two years ago now, watching Sherlock call his name with a hand on his prick.

 

“Just once, and I will never mention this again,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft realized then that the heavy breathing he had been hearing was his own.

 

“... Just once,” Mycroft agreed. Sherlock was smiling when Mycroft closed the gap and sealed their lips together.

 

***

 

Sherlock couldn’t get up the stairs quickly enough, and Mycroft was just behind him, a bit out of breath from the sudden, unexpected exercise. Sherlocked wondered when he had last done this, if Mycroft had indeed ever been so aroused that he removed his tie and jacket on the stairs in his hurry to be naked and horizontal with another human being. Somehow, Sherlock doubted.

 

His own heart was hammering wildly in his chest, knowing that everything he had wanted for so long was now just beyond the reach of his fingertips. And Mycroft was reaching the rest of the way, at last, reaching those last few inches to unite them as Sherlock would have never been able to admit that he dreamed.

 

He felt inexperienced, with Mycroft. It hadn’t been a lie, when he’d said that he wasn’t a virgin. He had had sex with six different partners, male and female, in the spirit of the scientific method. Mostly to test his hypothesis about Mycroft. This would be the final experiment. He only had to hope that Mycroft would be willing to repeat the experience the necessary three times for a proper data sample. Perhaps more.

 

For now, Sherlock, simply tried to concentrate his racing mind on getting himself naked before they reached Mycroft’s room, not wanting to give his brother any time to hesitate. The way Mycroft slammed him against the bedroom door for another searing kiss made Sherlock doubt he was having second thoughts. Not yet, anyway.

 

***

 

Sherlock was naked and in his bed and it wasn’t Christmas, but God, did it feel like it, with Mycroft on top of him and grinding into his willing body. He had gone too long without the pleasures of the flesh and now, to have the object of his deepest, most intimate fantasies before him... It would take a stronger man than Mycroft to refuse him. Especially when he made those breathy moans when the elder nibbled along the column of his throat.

 

“Please,” Sherlock begged, and it was all Mycroft could do to take a shuddering breath and calm himself, sitting up on his heels and looking down at his tousled brother.

 

“No, no, no, don’t stop, please, Mycroft,” Sherlock stammered, and Mycroft saw genuine fear in his eyes. How badly he must have hurt him before, sending him away. He certainly wouldn’t be able to do it again now, though he knew they would need to talk, come morning.

 

“I’ll need to prep you, Dear heart. Don’t want to hurt you,” Mycroft soothed, a hand caressing one flushed cheek, hot under his touch, and softer than he might have expected from a man. Sherlock shuddered. Mycroft couldn’t resist kissing him again before reaching for lube and a condom from his bedside drawer.

 

“My...”

 

“I won’t do it without,” Mycroft said firmly. Seeming not to dare to argue, Sherlock merely nodded and was rewarded by Mycroft’s roughened hand on his penis. Putting the condom on himself, Mycroft gently began to prep his new lover with one lube-slicked finger, mesmerized by the way Sherlock keened and twisted around that single digit. His own erection throbbed with want.

 

“Please, please, more.”

 

Mycroft was only too glad to give it to him, but took his time and was thorough about it, not willing to risk injuring him in a fit of passion. They were breaking the law, and Mycroft’s own moral code; He refused to break Sherlock as well. By the time Mycroft was twisting three fingers inside that tight arse, Sherlock was nearly incoherent, and Mycroft was certain he’d never seen anything more beautiful. He removed his fingers, earning a plaintive groan from Sherlock.

 

“It will still hurt,” Mycroft warned, earning a breathless chuckle from his brother.

 

“I know. Hung like the devil.”

 

Mycroft had the decency to blush. “Please refrain from saying things like that in my bed.”

 

“Does that mean I’ll get the chance to say them again?” Sherlock asked. Not wanting to answer that, and not knowing what he’d say in the first place, Mycroft forewent a reply by slowly thrusting inside Sherlock’s warm channel, insides turning to goo at the way his lover’s eyes rolled in his skull with unsuppressed pleasure. Mycroft had to bite his lip to keep from releasing on the spot. “God, My...” Sherlock breathed.

 

Kissing his brother until the need to breathe forced them apart, Mycroft gave an experimental thrust. “How?” he asked, though he bet he knew.

 

“Hard,” Sherlock confirmed, arms coming up around Mycroft’s shoulders. When he was certain the younger man had adjusted, Mycroft began pistoning his hips, the slaps of their bodies rising in their air around them with their breath. Sherlock cried in pleasure for him and Mycroft replied with soft words so tender he hadn’t thought himself capable of before. When Sherlock came, Mycroft’s name was on his lips, and when Mycroft reciprocated, it was lost in Sherlock’s mouth, unable to keep from kissing his beloved brother at that moment of climax. In the morning, they would need to talk about the very real consequences of what they had done, and were possibly going to keep on doing. There needed to be rules, and limits, and it couldn’t effect Sherlock’s schooling in anyway...

 

Tonight, however, the morning seemed a long way off, and when Mycroft lay entwined with Sherlock after their third coupling, he was finding it difficult to strategize for that looming milestone. That night, with Sherlock wrapped tightly in his arms, Mycroft experienced the deepest sleep he had in years. And if he dreamed, it was without shame.

 

***

 

Laying there with John on his chest, sleepy and post-coitus, Mycroft had politely obliged the sandy-haired man’s request to know how things had all started, between Sherlock and himself. From his place tucked half against Mycroft’s side and half draped over the both of them, Sherlock had offered many muttered changes to the story, trying to make himself seem wiser, less awkward than he really had been, and Mycroft had allowed it, even chuckling at the tired mutterings, when they began to ramble. From the reverberations of John’s laughter through his chest, Mycroft doubted that the good doctor was much buying into it either.

  
It didn’t really matter anymore, how it started. It had, and they were happy. Mycroft very seldom dared to be happy. When you were as high up as your could possibly be, the only place to go was back down again. This was something that Mycroft understood only too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with Wilkes, but I doubt anyone will mind. Comments are love! Thank you!


	16. In Which John Is Neither Jealous, Nor Unreasonable (Entry 13, Part One, Day "10")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is not Jealous and he is not Unreasonable. Which makes his feelings at this moment not only Unreasonable, but bordering on Absurd. 
> 
> Day "10" - Explaining a kink to a lover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you think this was abandoned? So did I. A lot has happened in the last year. I graduated college, I got a promotion, I got disappointed by Season 3 of Sherlock. Mostly, that last one left me very uninspired. I stopped reading the fics and stopped writing because I was angry at the show for being ridiculous and quite frankly, writing for the internet. I really hate when shows and movies write themselves with the thought of 'Oh, won't the fandom/Tumblr love THIS'. It's insulting to our intelligence, and a disservice to the world and characters that you are writing for. Quite frankly, it's lazy, and I expected better.
> 
> That's it, I'm done ranting about that. Hopefully, other people had a much more positive experience of the season and enjoyed themselves. It was not entirely without merits, after all.
> 
> Another thing to admit: I'm an ACD Holmes fan and have been most of my life. I tell you this now because as I further separate myself with what in season 3 is now cannon, I am going to stick more closely to the Holmes that I know and love (with the modern idiosyncrasies that we find in Sherlock, a young, and quite frankly less stable version of the man that knows himself and his abilities so well in ACD and other adaptations).
> 
> Regardless, I'm back, and I'm writing again and I hope to continue doing so on my limited schedule until the fic is done. If you're still around, I thank you for your continued support and understanding. If you got tired of waiting on me, I'm truly, very sorry.

John Hamish Watson had never been a particularly jealous man. He considered it a matter of principle. Anything that may or may not be said in the heat of the moment, well, that was just where it could stay; in the moment. Unlike Sherlock, John was able to determine the right and wrong times to discuss one’s sexuality. He did not own a lover, their body, anymore than he owned a pair or Mycroft’s Oxfords or Sherlock’s lab equipment. More than that, however, John was a bit of a romantic, as evidenced by the terrible, romantic poetry Sherlock really should not have ever read from his E-mails to his various girlfriends, and he truly did believe that one could not have love without trust. He trusted his lovers not to cheat on him, and so he was not jealous, even if he caught a lover flirting. There was a certain situation with a certain consulting detective and a certain Miss Irene Adler, but, well, John had never claimed not to be a man prone to pining.

 

Another thing John had never particularly been was unreasonable. He liked to think of himself as an unshakable type of person, something that had been put to the test since meeting and moving in with and falling in love with one Sherlock Holmes. He could take almost anything in stride, fingers in the crisper drawer, okay, pickpocketing a respected DI, sure. Hell, Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft had taken him all of three days to move past, and mostly it had been concern more than disgust that had him locked in his room, trying to figure out how to handle the situation. John was painstakingly reasonable, almost to the point of fault.

 

Between the combination of not being a jealous man and not being an unreasonable one, the fact that John _was_  jealous, and of an _inanimate object_  was beyond unreasonable and bordering on the absurd. But John had never seen Sherlock actually touch the skull.

 

Now Sherlock handled it with deft precision, his fingers careful and sure, holding the skull lightly at the mandible and base. He seemed to be looking it over with a critical eye. Apparently checking it for damage, Sherlock’s lips moved silently as if speaking to the skull, and he ever so delicately placed it back in its prime space on the mantle. Long, nimble fingers traced lovingly over the zygomatic arch and John’s pulse quickened as he watched. He had seen Sherlock stroke Mycroft’s cock with less affection than that.

 

For the first time in a very long time, John wanted to ask who it was.

 

_’An old friend. Well, I say **friend**...’_

 

John had always assumed it was some old enemy, a conquest of the work that Sherlock somehow had managed to keep as a momento. There had always been the chance, also, that he had simply bought the skull for anatomical study, and had simply been teasing John, all that time ago. But this moment disproved both of John’s core theories. John knew how Sherlock treated his things, his possessions, as carelessly as the documents scattered about their flat. Even when Sherlock was gentle, he was without proper delicacy. There was after all a difference between not slamming a teacup into the saucer hard enough to chip it and placing it with care. A matter of intensity, John thought solemnly, and Sherlock was never far from ‘intense’.

 

“Sorry,” John said.

 

“A dog in London, John, really,” Sherlock said with the same disdain he had been showing the bull pup all morning.

 

John shrugged, “Harry couldn’t keep him and sent him on. I’ll train him up so he’s not breaking your things.”

 

Gladstone, the English bull pup in question, was lounging on the rug in the living area, snoozing and snoring loudly in way that was almost endearing and two steps short of adorable. If he were honest, John would admit that he had seriously considered getting a dog of his own when he had first been discharged, but had decided against it until he was more settled. And Sherlock did have a point about keeping a live animal in London, but at least Bulldogs were fairly simple as far as physical needs, if you kept them clean and cool and hydrated. Regardless, Gladstone was better off with them than some shelter or one of Harry’s less reputable friends.

 

“Of course you will,” Sherlock muttered, still checking over the skull. Gladstone had gotten excited and ran about their sitting room, eventually ramming himself into the fireplace, knocking the skull from its position, causing it to fall and hit the pup before landing on one of John’s sweaters, repurposed by the puppy as a toy and now, sadly, beyond saving.

 

“Is the skull alright?” John asked, going for casual concern and landing somewhere to the left. It spoke volumes that Sherlock seemed to be too distracted to notice.

 

“Seems to be intact,” Sherlock replied, his eyes still on the skull. “It always seems to be dogs with you and I.”

 

This last bit was murmured, almost under Sherlock’s breath and John found himself without a clue what Sherlock could mean by it. He supposed he wouldn’t know, however, considering that he was fairly certain Sherlock was not talking to him in the first place.

 

***

 

“Mrs. Hudson, what did you do with Sherlock’s skull when you took it that first week?” John asked her, sitting down in her kitchen for tea and biscuits, as was their habit on Wednesday mornings, when John had a late start at the surgery.

 

“The skull?” Mrs. Hudson laughed, “ Oh dear me, I had almost forgotten that I took it! It was unseemly, keeping human remains on a mantle. And I thought probably most illegal.” She took a drink of her tea, tittering over it in the amiable way that elder women had.

 

“Yes,” John said patiently, “But what did you do with it?”

 

“Do? Nothing. I had been trying to figure out how I was supposed to get it to the right people when Mycroft Holmes was knocking at my door and explaining that it was a medical artifact and quite legal to buy and own, if done through the proper channels.”

 

“So you gave it back?”

 

“I gave it to Mycroft and next I knew it was back on the mantle. I didn’t want Sherlock getting himself into trouble, poor dear, but I suppose Mycroft would know one way or the other,” she shrugged daintily. “Granted I didn’t know about all of that between them then. Do you think he lied to me?”

 

“No, no,” John assured her, not wanting her to get the wrong idea (or any idea for that matter) about why he was asking, “No, it’s perfectly legal to keep a medically prepared skull. I had just been thinking about it, that’s all.”

 

“Hm, it still seems a bit unseemly.”

 

John cracked a smile, “Most things about Sherlock come across that way, I suppose.”

 

Mrs. Hudson laughed, “It is part of his charm, isn’t it?”

 

***

 

“You want to know about Sherlock’s skull?” Mycroft asked him over dinner, a perfect eyebrow raised in question.

 

“Please do not evade me, Mycroft. I know you know something. You probably procured it for him,” John hypothesized, rubbing his temples where a headache had been building since that morning. His eyes fluttered up when he felt gentle fingers move over his forehead, Mycroft, touching him a rare show of public care.

 

“Headache, Doctor?”

 

John grunted softly in reply, but offered his lover a small smile to soften the effect. “Will you tell me who it is?”

 

Mycroft’s lips pursed and he summoned a waiter, speaking softly to him before sending him away again. To John, he said, “I am not certain it is my place to say.”

 

“Because he was someone important to Sherlock.”

 

The eyebrow raised again.

 

“Please, I’m a doctor, Mycroft, I know the signifiers for a male skull.”

 

“Of course,” Mycroft smiled, as if it had never crossed his mind to doubt John’s knowledge. John had the particular feeling he was being played with, but that was a common thing with two Holmes boys in your life, and it did not particularly bother him.

 

“Mycroft. Please. I do not want to ask Sherlock not knowing what kind of Pandora’s Box I am opening. I do not want to hurt him,” John told him sincerely, knowing Mycroft’s face well enough to see the admission take effect behind his eyes, softening his expression so slightly another might not have noticed.

 

“Very well.”

 

At that moment, the server returned with a small pill bottle. Mycroft checked the bottle and the pills before handing John two painkillers. “For your head,” he smiled, thanking the server.

 

“Ta,” John said, nodding to the server as the man left, then took the pills with a sip of his water, not sure some days why he trusted Mycroft not to drug him, seeing as it was not above the younger brother.

 

“His name was Victor Trevor, he and Sherlock went to university together,” Mycroft supplied, and John nodded.

 

“They were lovers?”

 

“For a time, yes.”

 

“With you?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes snapped to John’s, holding him there in a cold, arrogant stare. John wondered how often Mycroft felt the need to lash out to protect himself. He wondered if it were possible that Mycroft’s psyche was as weak as the ginger man worried that Sherlock’s must be. John thought them both stronger than either believed, but Mycroft was usually the more stable of the two.

 

“Yes, a few times with me,” Mycroft supplied.

 

Asking Mycroft questions was sometimes like pulling teeth. And the patient was unsedated. And had a knife.

 

“But not the whole time,” John prodded.

 

Mycroft took a sip of his wine, after swirling it delicately in his glass, watching the red liquid twirl in sensual waves. “No. I thought Sherlock would be better off with one partner.”

 

“Ah.” John didn’t have to ask to know that this was when the drug use had started, or at the very least became a real problem. “How did he die?”

 

“Car accident,” Mycroft said, his voice clipped, “I will not tell you anymore than that, John, so please do not ask.”

 

John leaned across the table to kiss him, not caring that they were in public. “Thank you, Mycroft.” He smiled at the older Holmes brother, feeling a flutter in his own heart at this show of care. It was a sacrifice for a man like Mycroft to submit to the questioning of another. John did not take it lightly. “Take me home.”

 

Finally, a small smile graced Mycroft’s mouth. “As you wish.”

 

***

 

In Mycroft’s townhouse, well insulated walls gave John a sort of freedom he had only rarely had. He got to beg.

 

“Please, please, Myc, I need it,” John gasped, holding his cheeks spread for his lover as Mycroft chuckled against his hole, tongue delving sweetly into the loosened space, making John shudder and beg again. It wasn’t often they had sex without Sherlock, but when they did, having all of Mycroft’s intense focus on him was often enough to tear John’s sense of decency apart. He cursed repeatedly under his breath.

 

“Language, Doctor,” Mycroft said, cool as ever. “If there is something you want, you only have to ask me nicely.” This was not true, and they both knew it. If John asked, Mycroft would continue to tease him. If he begged, Mycroft would reward him, but not necessarily with what he wanted. Control was Mycroft’s weapon, wielded with precision.

 

“Stick your dick in me, now, Mycroft, or so help me,” John managed through gritted teeth, pressing his arse back into Mycroft’s soft gasp of pleasure. A small victory, that little sigh of breath, but all Mycroft did was lick into him harder, making John tremble and plead with him for more. He was going to cum, without getting that thick member inside of him, without even having Mycroft touch his weeping erection. “Please,” he begged, trying not to rut into Mycroft’s satin sheets without much success, “ _Please_.”

 

“So very nice, John,” Mycroft said, his voice just above a growl. He was getting there too, which was very quick for the government official's usually ridiculous stamina. John, were he more cognizant, might have blamed the emotional turmoil of their evening. John, with that mouth on his hole, could not possibly care less. “So very nice when you beg for me, your pretty hole sucking me in.”

 

“Mmmm, Mycroft…”

 

“Yes.”

 

Then that mouth was away from him and John wanted to weep for three precious, painful moments before the bulbous head of Myroft’s cock was pressing hard into his spit-slicked hole. John moaned loudly, hips remaining still without his willing them to, because large, surprisingly strong hands held them where they were, unable to buck back into the pleasure of Mycroft’s entering him. He whimpered with need.

 

“Patience,” said Mycroft’s gravelly voice, evidence he, too, was at his limit, slowly sinking into John’s willing entrance. Once in, he remained still for what seemed to John to be an eternity, ignoring John’s soft pleas even when Mycroft’s own hands shook on John’s hips. He was gripping hard enough John idly hoped there would be bruises to show Sherlock tomorrow, in the one section of his brain not entirely mush.

 

When Mycroft finally did move, the wait seemed to have been worth it, feeling that strong, surprisingly lean body moving forcefully into him, tearing moans from John’s throat like seams from cheap clothing. John moaned the Holmes brother’s name, pleading with him for more, faster, _please_  until Mycroft was slamming into him hard enough to shake the bed, growling obscenities in a way that made John shiver and agree. He would let Mycroft say anything he wanted, call him anything he wanted, as long as he kept fucking him like  _that_. Fuck.

 

“I want you to cum for me, John,” Mycroft growled into his ear, making John’s brain short out entirely. Later he would remember having mumbled something that was probably meant to be ‘God, Yes’ but was probably much less dignified. He came, hard, crying out Mycroft’s name and clamping around him like a vice. He barely heard Mycroft’s soft words of praise, hardly even felt when Mycroft’s own release filled him. The world was calm and new and John surrendered happily to the encroaching darkness.

 

***

 

When John awakened, it was to a high rumble that it took him a few moments to realize was Gladstone, snoozing in the corner of Mycroft’s bedroom. The next thing he came aware of, naturally, was that Sherlock was in bed with him, blessedly naked with his arms around John at the ribs, John's head resting at Sherlock's shoulder.

 

“She’lock?” He managed elegantly, looking up into the smiling, opaline eyes of his lover.

 

“Hello, John. Mycroft said you reached subspace. I wish I had been here to see it,” He said, words kind and hands moving over his skin tenderly. John was unused to such kindness, but it wasn’t as if Sherlock was incapable of it. He smiled tiredly back.

 

“Me too. Where’s ‘Croft?”

 

“Out on business. He was with us for a few hours. You’ve been sleeping most of the night,” Sherlock informed.

 

“Mm,” John replied helpfully.

 

Sherlock laughed softly, “You’re kind of cute like this. I didn’t think I would ever get to say that.”

 

“Not cute,” John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s collarbone. “Manly Soldier Me.”

 

“Archaic,” Sherlock said with a raised eyebrow and for a moment John had the strange urge to kiss that too, and call attention to how alike his two lovers could be at times. He didn’t.

 

“Mmhmm, but I love you. And you love me,” John informed him warmly.

  
“I do,” Sherlock agreed, though he had never really said the words himself. “That’s why, John… That’s why I want to tell you about Victor Trevor.”


	17. It's Always Dogs With Us (Entry 13.5, Day "10")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not even two weeks. Proud of me?
> 
> So, younger Sherlock is kind of hard to write when he's clueless and a mess. So enjoy reading that. Keep in mind that he is young and in some ways less able to protect himself, emotionally, than he is as we know him. He is less confident and more.... A lot ship.
> 
> Hope a little angst isn't too awful for anyone today. Thank you, as always.

Sherlock Holmes met one Victor Trevor when the latter’s dog decided to chomp on his ankle. As meetings go, it was not in the least romantic, and, really, Sherlock would have preferred to put Victor Trevor, and his snappity little mongrel, out of his mind and out of his life. If anything could be said for Victor Trevor, however, it was that the young man was attractive, intelligent, and, most importantly, persistent. Feeling badly about the incident through which they met, the young student of chemistry was adamant that he make the encounter up to the other boy.

From that point on, Sherlock found that Mr. Trevor was a very difficult person to shake, constantly around with some sort of literature he thought Sherlock might find interesting, a new tea he found in a little shop, a pastry while Sherlock was huddled over a small tower of books in the library. Sherlock might have found the treatment both invasive and somewhat creepy, had Victor not seemed entirely well-intentioned.

It really wasn’t more than four months before Sherlock found that he was quite used to the other man’s presence. It was hardly six months, the first time Sherlock realized he had in fact begun to look forward to seeing Victor, and that he had, on a few docketed occasions in his Mind Palace, even searched him out for one reason or another. When Victor’s lease expired at the eight month mark of their acquaintance, it had seemed quite logical to Sherlock that they should split the lodging of a single flat.

They had known each other a year, two months and six days before they began having sex.

Sex with Victor was unlike it had been with anyone else Sherlock had shared the experience with. He was a kind and passionate lover, giving everything he had and never asking for anything in return. Sherlock, to his own surprise, found that he wanted to give  _more_  simply because Victor _didn’t_  ask for it. He had never had anyone who didn’t want   _anything_  from him. Other than, perhaps, Mycroft, but that was another story entirely, and a completely different game. And, actually, Mycroft did demand his submission. Victor did nothing of the sort, as happy to give as to receive, he cheerfully took control when asked and gave it with equal fervor.

Sherlock loved him more than he would have thought possible.

He told Victor about Mycroft during the come down from a drug he hadn’t really thought he would take, until the opportunity was staring him in the face, sobbing and clinging to his lover as pain rolled in his gut, from withdrawal or from the emotions thundering through him, he did not know. Victor had stroked his hair and called him a fool and calmly told Sherlock that he didn’t want Sebastian Wilkes in his house ever again, regardless of the reason. Sherlock was powerless to do anything but sob and agree.

They talked about Mycroft the next morning, the pale light of day unkind and revealing.

“You’ve been fucking him the entire time we’ve been together?” Victor asked, his voice calm and his face unreadable. He was a shark at poker, while Sherlock still held his emotions in the space between his brows. Victor was teaching him to act, as a measure to counteract this, and Sherlock had enjoyed that time with him, foolish and without purpose.

“Yes,” Sherlock admitted, “Longer.”

Victor nodded, his face serene and he was silent for a long moment, seeming to consider Sherlock through blank, hazel eyes. Sherlock’s chest was tight and he felt exhausted in a way he knew wasn’t from the drugs, but was tempted to blame on them anyway. Part of him wanted to break down and tell Victor everything, but he waited, waited for his lover to ask, knowing his face would betray him if he tried to lie. Sherlock was never any good at telling a lie, when it mattered to him.

“So, I’m your man on the side, then? I’ve met Mycroft, Sherlock. He’s seen me kiss you.”

Once, a kiss goodbye before Sherlock went to some stupid function with Mycroft, his brother waiting calmly at the bottom of their steps, unflappable, not even sparing them a glance. Sherlock’s stomach had rolled at the feel of that loving caress of lips, so close to the only other person he’d ever managed to give his heart to. He had felt torn into two perfect, separate halves.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered aloud, not nearly enough, but all he was capable of.

“Was he jealous?” Victor’s eyebrow quirked and Sherlock’s heart thundered in his chest, traitorous and wanting. And damn Victor, for making him feel like this, and damn himself, for being young and foolish and in love and letting himself get into this situation in the first place. He wished he could regret it.

“No.” Mycroft liked Victor. He had been glad Sherlock had him him his life, and had encouraged Sherlock, on one, tumultuous occasion, to cease their ‘arrangement’ and to be with Victor exclusively. Sherlock had slammed him into a wall in a rough kiss, angry and needy, and they had not spoken of it again.

“You never told me you had a primary partner,” Victor pointed out, but it didn’t feel like an accusation, more like a gentle reminder of the facts. Maybe even a bit of prompting, trying to get Sherlock to speak more than one word at a time.

“We don’t… Speak of it.” Sherlock’s heart clenched at the thought of how Mycroft was going to take the news of this. Of Victor knowing. And if he left Sherlock, felt betrayed, then would their secret be so safe with him? Sherlock found the morality that was meant to keep them apart archaic, but there were repercussions to being found out. Even Sherlock couldn’t be completely oblivious to that. He could cost Mycroft his growing position in the government. When your way was built in the shadows, you were all the easier to depose. Until a certain level of power was reached, anyway. Was Mycroft there yet? Sherlock rarely bothered to ask about his elder brother’s professional affairs.

“I would think not,” Victor said, nodding slightly, almost thoughtful, but his movements were just jerky enough to betray him. “Sherlock… I fucking love you, you get that, yeah?”

Sherlock wasn’t certain how he managed his nod.

Victor offered him something not unlike a smile. It was dazzling in the bright morning shine, where the sun fell across their bed, Victor sitting upright, Sherlock curled in on himself. “You’re ridiculous, and rude and you forget to eat and sleep, and sometimes I have to drag you home from the labs, and you never, ever do the shopping or your part of the cleaning. You smoke even though you know I hate it and you pick fights with every one of my friends. And yet, for whatever reason, fate or folly, I love you.”

There was a solid chance Sherlock was going to pass out from lack of breath. He wasn’t even sure when he had stopped breathing.

“Look… I don’t want to leave you. I want to stay and keep being in love with you, and keep putting up with all of your troublesome ways. Mycroft? We can deal with that. As long as there’s no more lying. No more secrets. Is there anything else? Anyone else?” Victor asked, and he was running his fingers over Sherlock’s arm, his touch light and sure and everything that the brunette admired in him.

There were other secrets, of course there were, simply because there were so many things they had never discussed. But Sherlock knew that those were not necessarily what Victor meant, and he managed another nod. “No one,” he croaked, and winced internally at the sound of his voice, like that. It was worth it to see Victor really smile at him. Smile and mean it. The fluttering of Sherlock’s heart a painful tattoo in his chest.

It was worth more, anything Sherlock could have given and still _more_  when Victor moved in to kiss him. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

***

It was Victor who suggested Mycroft join them in bed, one night, a bit tipsy and very comfortable in their own set of rooms. It was a surprise to Sherlock when Mycroft actually agreed, but then, perhaps the older Holmes was a bit tipsy himself, flushed in the cheeks with the merriment of their evening. The resulting evening had been like something as of a dream, and if Sherlock had not woken that morning to the sounds of Mycroft dressing to leave, Victor still wrapped, warm, around Sherlock’s middle, he might have thought it to be so. The only other two times the events had repeated themselves, however, all parties had been fully aware and the resulting pleasure had been no less intense for it. Given the chance, Sherlock would have opted to have sex no other way.

But Mycroft began to pull away from him, not long after that. It actually took Sherlock a while to notice, as it was not unusual for Mycroft to be busy with work, sometimes unable to see him for weeks on end, but slowly it came To Sherlock that he was, in fact, being avoided. Mycroft was suddenly too tired, too busy, too… Everything, but with Sherlock. And things had come to a head, as they always did with them, and in the resulting fight… Mycroft ended it. Told him to be with Victor and Victor alone and Sherlock was left reeling, not certain how he was supposed to get by, how he was supposed to _shut **off**_  if he didn’t have Mycroft. When he didn’t want to be without Mycroft.

There was comfort in the needle.

Victor tried to understand. He tried his hardest to make everything alright but he wasn’t enough at the needle wasn’t enough, and Sherlock felt like he was dying…

They went to visit Victor’s father in the country. He was a well travelled man, and not necessarily educated in the traditional sense, but sharp and clever enough to be someone Sherlock had always enjoyed as a conversational partner. The journey was good for him, but Sherlock still found himself on edge, making snappy deductions with little prompting, something Victor’s father seemed to find quite fascinating, and which he encouraged, like no one but Mycroft had ever bothered.

This particular visit, however, these deductions led to trouble more than not. It began with a set of initials tattooed on the man’s skin and led to the death of a man Sherlock had held in esteem.

“It was my first real case, John. The first I actually applied my powers of deduction to, since Carl Powers,” Sherlock explained, letting John hold him, his throat dry from reciting the events of his past, as well as he could without betraying himself and falling to tears. He refused to make a fool of himself, even if John would not blame him for it. “The initials I had noticed tattooed in the crook of his arm, J.A. were in fact his own, from before Mr. Trevor had changed his name. He had money, and as it turned out, he had acquired it less than legally. My deduction that the person to whom the initials belonged was one from his past, and one he would rather forget, made him ill at ease. Victor and I left sooner than intended, but not before a man arrived, who Mr. Trevor claimed was an old friend. His actions were irregular and it did not seem he was actually pleased to see this friend, but when Victor asked the man to leave, Mr. Trevor more or less threw us out on the pavement. The man was of course blackmailing Mr. Trevor, knowing his past, and that of another prominent man who had been involved in the deed, but we did not know that then, and we left. A month later, Mr. Trevor was dead. Declared a stroke. Victor was… He was in no shape to drive. I was… Unable to go with him. He never made it there.”

There was a long silence and Sherlock closed his eyes, his breath rattling pathetically in his lungs as he let it out. “I took to the case, and found the man, but the other businessman involved had killed him, then taken his own life. Presumably thinking he was next for blackmail or death. I solved the case. I traced the motives, I found the evidence of the original crime. It was pointless, but I did it. And Mycroft procured the skull. There was no one else to mourn him, after all.”

“Oh Sherlock,” John sighed, and his arms were tight, strong around the thinner man’s form, in that surprising way he had sometimes. “Oh Sherlock…”

Sherlock laughed mirthlessly, “I don’t want your pity, John.”

“You are a tosser, Sherlock,” John told him simply and Sherlock looked at him, a little surprised, a little offended. But John was smiling fondly at him, though his eyes were sad. “My heart hurts for you, Sherlock, but that’s not pity. It’s because I love you, more than anything, and it hurts to know you hurt like that. And no one was there to help you.”

“I didn’t let Mycroft help me,” Sherlock told him darkly.

John shrugged. “Can’t say I blame you for that. He’s an idiot too, sometimes. It’s a Holmesian thing.”

“Victor was… He wasn’t…” Sherlock growled softly, his face turned into John’s neck. John nodded, his lips brushing Sherlock’s forehead.

“He wasn’t enough. And Mycroft isn’t enough. I’m not enough. You need more, Sherlock. I know that. I get that now. One person couldn’t possibly have everything you need. That’s okay. It might seem selfish, maybe, but who cares? You need what you need. We can give you what you need, Mycroft and I, but it takes us both.” He kissed his lover gently on the lips arms never faltering in his steady grip. “I won’t let him do it again. I won’t let Mycroft hurt you like that. I’d invade Afghanistan by myself first.” Sherlock gave a soft snort at that and John smiled against his temple. “It’s true.”

“Sentiment,” Sherlock managed, his voice tired and failing in its attempt to be properly disdainful.

**  
**“Guilty,” John agreed. He held his lover and talked to him late into the night, thinking about Victor Trevor and everything losing him must have meant for Sherlock’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Hope it was enjoyable for everyone. Comments are lovely. If you have questions, or comments for the characters, I've been thinking it might be fun to do comment responses as our boys. If that would entertain anyone other than just me.


	18. Differences (Entry 14, Day "30")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes some discoveries, John does likewise, and Mycroft is the only one who seems to know anything. The one for Asexuality Awareness Week.

The way it happened, they had ended up in a very high class strip joint on the borders of the West End, surrounded by soft light and lithe, gently moving bodies. As far as cases went, it had seemed a simple one, or, at least, less dangerous than their luck tended to trend. It had ended up taking three days, rather than the predicted thirty minutes Sherlock had supposed the problem would warrant and had left the genius growling that The Woman would have been an invaluable source of information at this juncture. It was rare enough to hear Sherlock speak of Irene Adler that the sound of him willing her aid was like a jolt to John’s sensitive systems.

 

He’d been thinking a lot lately, about Sherlock’s few and complicated relationships. He had long ago realized Sherlock wasn’t like anyone else (obviously) but more than that, there was a fundamental difference in how Sherlock viewed his relationships, up to and including the sexual ones. Up to and including John. Hearing about Victor Trevor had only cemented this in his mind. If he wanted to be with Sherlock, and, yes, Mycroft, if he were honest, for the rest of his life-- and God it was painful sometimes to admit how badly he wanted that-- then his best bet was to really understand them. Like they understood each other. He couldn’t keep running to Mycroft every time he wanted something, but didn’t know how to get the information from Sherlock without hurting him. He had to learn it on his own.

 

Mycroft was in some ways easier. His need for control was easy to mistake for a need for power, sometimes, but Mycroft’s power was only a byproduct of his need to control every facet of his own life. His skill at that control was what had earned him his current occupation as the British Government. John suspected that this need stemmed from a lack of control in his early life, but he really had little more than a smattering of training in psychology, so felt no real confidence in making such a declaration. What he did have was his own experience, but Mycroft and Sherlock had never asked about the abuse in his own childhood, even though Mycroft had to have seen his medical files (so many excuses for breaks and stitches, a warning sign for anyone looking for it) and Sherlock had to suspect, at the very least. They were all too familiar with each other not to suspect certain things.

 

Sherlock was more difficult to read, especially now that they ALL knew each other’s tells, because the data, as the man himself might put it, was often contradictory. Sherlock was an active sexual partner, that was certain, but he seemed to have no particular interest in romance of any sort. In fact, really, other than the fact that they now tended to see Mycroft slightly more often, John found that his life with Sherlock had changed very little. They sometimes slept in the same bed. Sometimes John slept in his own, and sometimes he slept in Sherlock’s, with or without the consulting detective present. Sherlock never argued when Angelo set their usual table with a candle, but then, when had he? And sometimes, John would catch Sherlock _looking_ at him, but it always seemed… He hadn’t really been able to figure out what was so different about Sherlock’s look until he had realized that his lover only looked at him _that way_ when they had an audience. Usually, it was Yarders and it seemed likely Sherlock did it just to drive them mad. John would be lying if he said he didn’t find it a little disspiriting.

 

But this. This was a whole new level of crazy, even for Sherlock.

 

John would never, ever cheat on either of his lovers. It was a terrible thing to do, and he really had no patience for the concept. However, this did not necessarily mean that his eyes stopped working, however, and being surrounded by about a half dozen, rather attractive, half naked strippers on their current case did actually, understandably, really, coalesce into a… problem. Really, it was only a half problem, but that strikingly beautiful girl who had been on stage when they entered the strip club was pressed ‘casually’ into John’s side and… Well.

 

John cleared his throat softly, making Sherlock raise an eyebrow at him, then continue his conversation. Sherlock’s lack of reaction in itself was not surprising. John was used to that, actually. He was not used to having four half naked sex-deities actively trying to entice his lover into paying attention to them. John was not jealous, though he wondered if he would be if Sherlock wasn’t so… composed. Perfectly unruffled.

 

Sherlock got what he apparently needed and they left the club out the side door. John thought about kissing him, but knew better than to try it when Sherlock’s mind was so focused on a case. Unless, perhaps, Sherlock was having a similar problem, and just better at hiding it?

 

“If you need to get off in order to focus, John, you can do that.”

 

John’s eyes snapped up to Sherlock’s and met a defiant gaze. John knew that look, knew that Sherlock was hurt, and that he had caused it. He just didn’t really understand why. He cleared his throat, “Uh, no… No, I’m fine.”

 

Sherlock sniffed and turned away, heading down the alley.

 

“Sherlock,” John called after him, but the other man didn’t stop. Faithful dog that he was, John gritted his teeth and followed.

 

***

 

“He was hard, Mycroft! For some… Some woman wearing nothing but sequins!” Sherlock thundered, throwing a nearby object across his brother’s study. Mycroft’s face never wavered as the book hit the ground. After a silent moment, he sighed and went to retrieve it.

 

“Sherlock, have you considered that he was hard because she was wearing nothing but sequins, rather than being hard for her? There is a difference, you know.”

 

Sherlock scowled at him, “Would you have been?”

 

Mycroft considered this. “Likely not. But our good doctor does not process such things in the same way as you, or I.”

 

“Dull,” Sherlock growled, but Mycroft could read the tightness of his shoulders and knew that the detective felt more betrayed by the possibility that John might be ‘dull’, more than anything else. The older Holmes crossed the study and wrapped his arms around his brother from behind, kissing the back of his neck.

 

“John is hardly dull. You know it to be true,” he soothed. “He just experiences sexual attraction differently than you or I.”

 

“Sexual attraction is a myth created by those that can’t control their own transport.”

 

Mycroft chuckled lowly, “Oh Sherlock. You would think that.” He pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s neck. “Why do you have sex, Brother Mine?”

 

“It feels good, it’s a good way to shut my brain off, it’s fun to do with John because he responds so…” Sherlock shrugged.

 

“It makes him happy, and you like making him happy,” Mycroft suggested, getting another shrug in response. This one was more sullen and Mycroft smiled at the half-hearted deflection. “I have sex with you because I like to make you feel pleasure, I like the way you react when I take control,” he grazed his teeth over Sherlock’s neck. “And, because I find you sexually attractive. I look at you and I feel want, even when I do not plan on doing anything about it. I look at John and I feel want. I do not feel this way often, and rarely do I feel it strongly.

 

“John, however, does. He experiences sexual attraction regularly, and with members of multiple genders. Sometimes, like today, this may manifest in a physical reaction. It does not mean he is going to cheat on you, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock bristled, “I never said--”

 

“It also doesn’t mean he’s bound to leave you for someone that experiences sexual attraction the same way he does.” There was a beat of silence, and Mycroft knew he hadn’t erred in his assessment of the situation. He sighed. He had always wondered how much of Sherlock’s self-proclaimed sociopathy was bravado and how much of it was an inherent feeling of ‘too different to be right’. “There is nothing wrong with you, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with me. John will not suddenly wake up and go to find someone less broken, because we are not broken.”

 

He turned his brother to face him and gave him a smirk of a smile, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock made an unimpressed face back at him.

 

Chuckling, Mycroft when to his shelves and pulled a book out, bringing it back to his lover and handing it over. “Go back to him, Sherlock. If he wakes and finds you not in the flat, he’ll worry. I’m sure you left without saying you were going.”

 

Sherlock took the book without arguing, which Mycroft hadn’t really expected, but appreciated. After Sherlock had made his leave, Mycroft sat down at his desk and poured himself a measure of scotch. He often wished he could go back in time and strangle himself for being so occupied with his own problems, he missed the obvious indicators in Sherlock. Again.

 

***

 

There was a book in Sherlock’s armchair when John wandered into the living room the next day. The bright white of the cover caught his attention before it was stolen away by the note on the mantle, attached to the wood with a knife. John rolled his eyes and crossed the room to read it.

 

‘Gone out. Research.’ The note said, in Sherlock’s memorably scrawl. John was pleased to have received a note at all, and considered for about three seconds not chewing Sherlock out over the newest strike in their poor mantle. He nixed the idea. It wouldn’t do to start letting Sherlock get away with it now.

 

Going to the kitchen, John began the familiar motions of making himself a cup of tea, setting out food and fresh water for Gladstone when he waddled out sleepily to join him. He thought back to the book, balanced carefully on the edge of Sherlock’s favorite seat. It was uncommon for the lanky man to treat a book with such care. He tended to strew them across the floor and throw them about when he found what he considered a ‘mistake’ in their pages. John wondered what he was researching now. He wondered if it was more or less interesting than the Lord-knows how many type of tobacco ash Sherlock was up to these days.

 

He took his tea back to the sitting room, settling into his own chair and humming, pleased, when Gladstone came with and curled up at his feet. He really was a good dog, when he wasn’t running wild, or when Sherlock wasn’t using him as a test subject. John just knew someday _he_ would be the one getting in trouble for that.

 

He leaned across the coffee table and picked up the book, looking at the cover. The Invisible Orientation: An Introduction to Asexuality, by Julie Sondra Decker. Pursing his lips in confusion, he turned it over to read the back. It seemed like an odd choice for Sherlock; not scientific enough, maybe. Probably not helpful for a case. John’s heart skipped four beats as he considered what this might mean. Considered Sherlock seeming unaffected in the strip club. Considered, even, his anger with John. The fact that he hadn’t come to bed.

 

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured, turning the book in his hands. He thought about Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft, wondered how any of that could work for so long, if Sherlock felt… Didn’t feel. John wondered why Sherlock bothered being with him.

 

And quickly realized that he really didn’t know anything about asexuality, when it came down to it. He opened the book.

 

Asexuality, it turned out, had little to do with whether or not someone wanted a relationship. Furthermore, John was surprised to read that asexuality had little to do with whether or not a person chose to have sex. The book pointed out that there were many reasons to have sex, besides sexual attraction. It was possible to have sex with someone you did not feel a physical urge for, and it was possible to enjoy it. Asexuality was based entirely on the lack of sexual attraction, not on sexual acts. John read about aesthetic attraction, sensual attraction and romantic attraction and tried to wrap his mind around the thought of them being separate concepts from sexual attraction. He read about demisexuality and gray-asexuality. He spent a while reading about what it was like for an asexual person and tried to imagine himself feeling that way. He couldn’t. John had known from a young age what he wanted, and was at peace with himself. He tried to imagine Sherlock feeling that way and… could.

 

He read the chapter on relationships with asexual people twice, to make sure he had it. He thought about the relationship that he did have with Sherlock and wondered if he was hurting him. If he was pushing too far. He decided they should probably have a chat about it, though he knew Sherlock probably wouldn’t enjoy it. He looked up when he heard the door.

 

Sherlock was standing there, halfway through the motion of removing his coat, staring at the book in John’s hand. John offered him a smile, knowing he wouldn’t see it, but wanting to make the effort anyway.

 

“Sherlock?” he prompted.

 

Opaline eyes came up to his. “Yes?”

 

John held up the book, “I meant it when I said it was all fine. This, this is fine too.”

 

***

 

John sighed with pleasure as Mycroft’s cock slipped into his well-stretched hole. Sherlock was stretched out beside him, hand caressing the scars on John’s shoulder, eyes soft in the low light of the room. John wanted to kiss him, so he did. Sherlock hummed happily into the kiss.

 

John was startled by his own soft laugh.

 

“John?” Mycroft asked, his hips slowing slightly, but not stopping.

 

“I’m happy,” John said, sounding amazed even to his own ears, “I am in a relationship more complicated than I could have ever imagined, and I am so, very happy.”

 

Mycroft chuckled and picked up his pace again as Sherlock pressed a kiss into John’s jaw.

 

“He’s talking still, My. You must not be doing a very good job,” Sherlock teased his brother, voice drowl and soft. Mycroft’s response was a husky laugh and to pick up his pace even more, until John really was beyond speech.

 

When he came, John wasn’t sure if it was in his mind or not, but he could have sworn he heard Sherlock’s soft voice, admitting,

  
“I’m happy too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it occured to me that I have never really explained my sexuality headcannon for Sherlock or Mycroft. I am firmly in the 'Sherlock Holmes is an Aromantic Asexual' camp, as far as ACD goes, and headcannon the BBC Sherlock as 'Demi-Aro Asexual'. Because there's a lot of complicated feeling going on between Sherlock and John (and yes, Mycroft and John, and Mycroft and Sherlock, regardless of how you interpret those feelings.
> 
> The Invisible Orientation is a real book, in very accessible language. As an Ace person myself, it's one of my favorite resources to give to confused individuals (of any orientation). (If anyone cares/is wondering, I'm 'sex positive' as a philosophy (meaning I think sex is overall a good thing, when everyone is consenting and happy about it) but personally sex indifferent (meaning I don't really wanted it personally). I am not repulsed by sex (some aces are, some aren't), but prefer to write and read about it, rather than seek out a partner I am not attracted to. I feel similarly about romance.) If you have any questions for me, I'm always up to it. You can do it here, or my Tumblr, http://thissp-aceintentionallyleftblank.tumblr.com/
> 
> Sorry it wasn't much of a porn fill. :)


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